Jackie
by PeekabooFang
Summary: NOW COMPLETE! "Your hands are just as dirty...dirtier!" Sal Valestra's words during "Mask of the Phantasm" remind Joker unwillingly of his past, and he finds out that past might not be as long-gone as he'd wished.
1. Chapter 1

**READ FIRST: 'Allo! This story takes place during and after the animated film, "Batman: Mask of the Phantasm." So if you haven't watched the movie or know what it's about, this fic might just flummox you a touch. This story also brings in part of Joker's supposed origin from "The Killing Joke" and the "Hush" series of comic books, but with my own twist to it. This is my first time writing for the Clown Prince, so let me know if you think he's ooc or any of that stuff. Parts of this may read strangely, because I'm trying (gulp) to get inside Joker's head, and it's kinda crazy in there, I've found. My writing tries to reflect that. DISCLAIMER: I own nuttin'. Enjoy!**

"_Your hands are just as dirty…DIRTIER!"_

Those words brought back not so much memory itself as memory of feelings-heat, hate, anger…the first time in his recollection that Joker had felt evil really come in and shake his soul's hand.

As Sal Valestra gripped his shirt collar, uttering those words, Joker forgot Bats going batso, the degradation of Sal's offer (THE JOKER reduced back into a petty hitman?), and all the other swooping, chaotic visions that usually circled his clouded but calculating mind.

Red filled his head, his eyes.

He'd heard those words before.

And they had killed…something. Something? Or someone….

NO.

Joker growled.

"DON'T TOUCH ME, OLD MAN!" He lashed out, lashed out at this murderer, this...this….

This…what?

He needed to recover. Fast. Old Sal-it was him, all this time it was him, lying to me, "guiding" me, and it was him, who…who did what again? —Old Sal was looking pretty scared, shrinking away from the menacing clown. Now, now, Jokey. What's the first rule of crime, of life itself? Keep your friends close….

And your rotten, wheezy enemies even closer.

Immediately Joker assumed a nonchalant pose, slapping his former comrade on the back. "I don't know where you've been! Heh heh!" He wrapped a serpentine arm around the old man's shoulders, rocking the geezer ever so slightly back and forth, a madman's cradling. "Oh, Sal. No one could take a joke like you. Of _course _I'll help you out." His high-pitched giggle tapered off as the man's belabored breathing steadied. Sal eyed Joker with hopeful hesitancy.

"Really?" He rasped.

"_Certainement! _No way is anybody gonna hurt my pal Sal!" The old mobster's face relaxed, an unsure smile tugging at his lips as a single bead of sweat raced down his craggy cheek.

_Yes…trust feels good, doesn't it, Sal, my pal, il mio secondo padre, my mentor?_

"That's it! That's what I want to see!" His bone-white face came so close to Sal's that it blocked out everything else in the burlesque hideout, the black eyes as intense as a prowling crow's.

"A nice, big smile."

* * *

Joker departed with Sal giving the old man every desirable, overdone courtesy the clown prince had up his sleeve. He watched with grim satisfaction as Sal's shoulders slumped in relief, the mobster elated that at last, a man more powerful, defter than he would relieve him of his burden, of falling prey to the Batman.

_Oh, don't worry, Sal. I'll make sure Batman doesn't kill you. Only the best of the best will put you six feet under, ol' wheezer geezer._

The roller coaster deposited Joker at his hideout, his makeshift "World of Tomorrow" happy home. So entrenched were the clown's thoughts that he let Rusty the robo-dog yip at him to his heart's content without serving the hunk of metal the usual quick kick.

_Your hands are just as dirty—DIRTIER._

Yes, those words had done it. Sal…it had been _Sal. _That pathetic excuse for a Mafioso, who could barely handle a gun himself, had been forced to rely on Joker's steady hand when he, Joker, was but a pup gangster, this Sal had…had….

Hmm…it might make taking revenge more satisfying if one could only remember what exactly one was avenging….

Joker trudged across the kitchen floor, stopping at the counter. Before him Hazel the lovely robo-wife was methodically slicing thin air with her kitchen knife. Joker stared at her.

A wisecrack came to his lips but died as _your hands are just as dirty dirtier _assaulted him again.

He looked at Hazel.

Your hands are just as dirty dirtier your hands are just as dirty DIRTIER

Sometimes someone can stand in one space and remember without remembering, without realizing they're remembering, and all of a sudden a voice, but this isn't Sal's voice, is that Hazel it's not Hazel but it's a woman

The voice, not Sal's, spoke. No, it wasn't Sal's. It was too soft…soft, but matter-of-fact, gentle, but not sentimental, a very small, pert voice from a corner of Joker's mind he didn't know he was hearing.

He heard the woman's voice without hearing it. A young woman's voice as he stared at Hazel's face. But was it Hazel's face?

And without hearing the words consciously, Joker heard the soft, matter-of-fact voice ask…

"Well? How did it go? Did they like your act?"


	2. Chapter 2

_Eighteen years previously…._

"Well? How did it go? Did they like your act?"

John Kerr was really starting to dread those words. He sucked in a brave breath as he shrugged off his coat, careful not to set off his twirling bow tie—one of the many props that had been heckled in his act that evening. _"Where ya think ya are, mac, Vaudeville? Enougha da corn, give us some damn jokes!"_

John—called Jack since his early infancy, first by a crooning mother and then by a drunkard, mobster father—winced at the memory of his most recent failure.

"Jack?"

He finally looked up. Jeannie was waiting for an answer.

She looked at him expectantly from her chair at the kitchen table, leaving off of the spuds she'd been peeling. Her face wore the usual mix of tenderness and frankness in its expression. _I love you dearly, more than anything, _that look always said, _but don't give me no bullshit._

That look was one of the many reasons he'd fallen in love with this sandy-haired, wisecracking chick, and married her. Probably married her too young.

"Umm…" he began, carelessly throwing his jacket on the back of a chair, again avoiding his wife's dark blue gaze. "They said they might call me…I dunno, I, I got nervous and messed up a punch line." _And I might have also started some shit with a heckler, but you don't need to know that, baby._

"…Oh."

Jack whipped around and the look on his face made Jeannie suck in a preparatory breath of her own. Oh, God, not his temper _right now_….

"What do you _mean, _'oh?'" The gritted teeth, the piercing eyes, and the tight voice were beyond Jack's control. He'd tried, tried so freakin' hard, and he couldn't…couldn't keep it in…

"I…I didn't mean anything." Usually Jeannie was better at calming Jack down, would simply laugh him off or blow a raspberry in his face. But she'd been caught off guard this time, lost in her own pensive thoughts.

Her stammering only further frustrated Jack. "Yes, you did. By the way you _said _it. 'Oh.' Like _that." _He spat the word 'that' out venomously, hard as he was trying to keep it keep it together no I'm not my father I'M NOT

"Jesus, all I _said _was—"

His voice boomed, even though he still spoke through clenched teeth. "You _said, _OH. As in, 'OH, so you didn't get a job.' As in, 'OH, so how are we going to feed the _baby?'_" He stared pointedly at her six-month pregnant stomach. The only reason Jeannie didn't shrink from his glare was that behind the anger and the frenzy, she could see the fear and sadness in those beloved dark eyes of his. Those eyes stared pleadingly at her now, though still brimming with that monster anger he always battled against. "What, you think I'm not worried about that?"

He shut his eyes and turned away, Jeannie rising out of her chair to stand behind him. His teeth were shut so tightly she could barely make out what he was saying. "You think, you think I don't care, that it's all just a big _joke_ to me or something. Jeez, I have to go, I have to go and stand up there, and nobody laughs, and you think…you think I"-

Jeannie gasped softly as Jack collapsed to his knees, clasping her around her thickening waist. She fell back gently into her chair, cradling her husband's subdued head in her lap. "Oh, _God," _he moaned into her cotton gown.

"Oh, _baby," _she responded, smoothing his auburn curls. She'd always known Jack was more vulnerable than the cocky, funny face he put on, but he very rarely was so demonstrative. Her heart ached for him.

"Oh, God, I'm sorry," he whispered. He breathed in the faint, detergent scent wafting from her light gown, and from the bathrobe she wore…Jeannie. He was with Jeannie, it was okay now, she understands, don't be angry, Jack, Jack, keep it together, Jeannie girl….

Calmer now, he choked words out through his tears. "I didn't mean to take it out on _you._ You're suh-suffering enough, being married to a loser."

The "no bull-shit" vibe edged back into her fiercely loyal voice. "Honey, that's not"—

"No, it's true! I can't support you. Oh, Jeannie, what are we gonna do?" His desperate eyes sought hers, and his anger briefly re-surged as he detected the growing circles around his girl's eyes, how drawn the features in her long, tired face looked. When he first saw her Senior year, that face had been so fresh and cloudless, the smart-aleck glint in her eyes separating her from the vapid cheerleaders and future gangster molls that filled the halls of North Gotham High, that sewer pit of public schools. He…he married her to _protect _her, to keep her safe and sound, away from the mob crap his mother had been forced to deal with. God, if he had joined up with the gang as his father had wanted, at least they wouldn't be stuck in this damn dump! Bad plumbing, peeling floor tiles, cramped space…what a place to raise a baby! Now it was too late, his old man had died last year. 'Course, Finny and Benny were always trying to wrangle him in…who knows, maybe just one big job, and then…

Then he saw that warm, sassy glint in Jeannie's loving eyes and he knew he couldn't expose her to that sordid life. As long as she still had that light in her eyes, he'd do anything to keep her away from that sleazy lifestyle.

"It'll be okay," she shrugged. She patted her stomach. "Junior won't be here for another three months, and I think Mrs. Burkiss will let the rent go a little longer. She feels sorry for me."

Jack snorted when he remembered that old hag landlady staring at Jeannie in pity and shock the first time they met, when Jeannie confessed to never having learned to sew, and barely knowing how to cook. They certainly made an atypical newly-wed couple: Jack, the nineteen-year old boy genius, who had given up a job as a lab assistant at the lucrative Gotham Chemical facility to become a stand-up comedian, and the youngest son of Walter "Krazy" Kerr to boot; and Jeannie, not yet eighteen, ignorant of almost all things housekeeping related, yet with a look and manner far older than her years. Despite her pity and disgust, Mrs. Burkiss had warmed quickly to Jeannie's soothing and laid-back ways, but still distrusted the son of Krazy Kerr. The old landlady had been around long enough to recognize when something wasn't quite right, and the gleam that leapt into that boy's eyes sometimes….

"She _hates_ me," Jack said bitterly, bringing himself back to the present. "She comes out to scowl at me every time I go upstairs." Restless, he left the shelter of Jeannie's lap to lean against the windowsill. He stared out the window, watching the rain and their miserable view of a brick wall. "This place reeks of cat litter and old people. I have _got _to get you out of here before the baby comes," he rasped. He winced as a siren wailed somewhere in the not so distant distance. "All I want is enough money to set us up in a decent neighborhood." He smirked darkly. "There are girls out there on the street who earn that in a weekend without having to tell a single joke."

Jeannie laughed, killing something harsh in him right then and there. He turned back sheepishly, to contemplate her beaming face. She looked so youthful and bright as she said, "Honey, don't worry! Not about any of it. _I _still love you, y'know? Job or no job, you're good in the sack…." She reached out her hand to his. "…And you know how to make me laugh."

* * *

Joker stared at his outstretched hand, extended toward the empty grin on Hazel's metal face. He blinked. Wuh? Huh. Where did…where did he just go? Hm. He felt for a second like he'd been somewhere else entirely…ha ha…whoop, guess that's the risk of being CRAZY.

He straightened the lapels of his lavender jacket, returning his thoughts to the problem at hand. Somehow, in some way, ol' Salvatore had taken something from him, destroying him in the process, or something. So, he'd have to go bye-bye. But what about Guano Man? Had Joker's favorite playmate really gone loopy? Hmm…Joker's crimson mouth smeared into a grizzly grin. Why not kill two birds with one stone, eh?


	3. Chapter 3

**WARNING: Violent stuff below. Also, a possibly insensitive reference to epilepsy—but it's the Joker saying it, so what do you expect? Seriously, no offense intended. Anyways, I don't know if the violence, which really isn't that graphic, warrants a ratings change. We'll see.**

*********

Sal Valestra eased himself into his armchair, a glass of red wine in hand. He exhaled an uneasy sigh, uneasy not only because of his increasingly troublesome asthma. No, this uneasiness stemmed from other factors altogether, having nothing to do with the aging mobster's failing health.

But these feelings were ridiculous. Joker would follow through.

The old man grunted in laughter. The average Joe on the street might think him crazy for trusting his life to the mad clown. But those people hadn't been there from the beginning, hadn't overseen Joker's training, training that now served him well as Gotham's most wanted criminal. Surely there still existed some Jack Napier behind that acid-bleached grimace: the man who knew not only to protect himself, but also his former boss, his former mentor.

Sal Valestra didn't care what anyone said, whether they were news reporters or his own advisors: Joker was a gangster first, a madman second. Ya don't forget the codes of the mob life after just one skirmish that leaves you a little more funhouse colored than before. He'd yield to the logic of the situation; by tonight, Batman would be dead.

Then why was Sal unable to sleep, and sitting up surveying his lush home as if it were the last time he'd ever see it?

_Ah, you're just old, Sal. Ya can't outrun the grim reaper forever, and when you're your age, the thoughts can't help running a little morbid at times. Like the old saying go—_

Sal shot upright in his chair mid-comforting thought, sweat permeating his forehead. His breathing came out in jagged huffs. There was a noise. A creaking. Was…was that a footstep?

Silence. Sal sat back slowly, his eyes crawling over his room—over his large grandfather clock, his fireplace, and his closed—locked—windows.

He chuckled to himself. How old was he, anyhow? Far too old and far too wise to let a little house-settling-in noises get the best of him. He sipped his wine in contentment….

_" 'Your hands are just as dirty—dirtier.'"_

…And spat the wine right out again. "Joker?!"

Sal stared with wide eyes at the face looming above him. Joker grinned down on Sal from the clown's position behind the armchair. His wide, purple fedora shaded his face save for those penetrating eyes, and his equally purple trench coat made him look ironically rather bat-like himself. His face tilted, the Cheshire cat grin ever widening. "Evening, Sal."

Sal swallowed against his dry throat. Lord, he wished he had his oxygen handy. Just relax, Sal. Relax.

"What…what are you doing here, Joker? Did…did you already get the Bat?" Joker snickered at the hysterical hint of hope in the old man's voice. This was going to be so much fun!

He reached down and tussled, none too gently, the scant gray hair on Sal's head, enjoying the wincing and squirming he was evoking. "Oh, I plan to very soon, Sal, old friend. This very night, like we agreed!" He suddenly leaned in close, hissing in Sal's ear: "In this very room."

"This very room?" Sal's eyes darted about. What… "How…how do you mean?"

Joker moved with calculated, even steps to the small table at Sal's right. He picked up the bottle of wine and splashed some into another glass close by. He stood with his back to Sal, staring at the fire.

"Y'know, Salvatore, I won't lie to you. I honestly don't remember much from my past life. No, I don't mean my life working with _you_—heh, you think I'd forget those carefree times, killing people for money? Naw, I was like a kid at a candy store back then! Well…albeit a murderous little tyke who preferred blood and screams to lollipops and chewing gum. Ah, but those were some lovely times, weren't they? No, I remember them all right. I guess. No, what I'm referring to is _before _the mayhem and the mafia and the whatnot. My life _before _I joined your little gang."

He took a sip. He thought he heard Sal's breathing quicken a hitch.

"No, I don't remember that life much at all. If…if anything, really! Heh! Actually, I _do _remember _one _thing…."

He whipped around, pinning the trembling old mob boss with his narrowed eyes. Those eyes and Joker's bared teeth were his only clearly definable features against the fire, the rest of his form silhouetted by the flames. He ground out those seven words once more, which this time hit Sal's memory like bullets: _" 'Your. Hands. Are. Just. As. Dirty. Dirtier!'"_

Sal's shaking had become so intense at this point that Joker feared the old man would drop dead of a heart attack before he could exact revenge. Better speed this process up a bit.

"Yes…I remember those words…."

"J-J-Joker, y-ya don't…don't under…don't understand…."

"True! Ha ha! Like I said, that time is a total blur to me! I don't even remember the context of those words, can ya believe it?"

"No, please"—

"Well, except for when you said them today, of course." He crept closer to Sal.

"Please, y-y-you're making a big mistake!"

"No, I don't remember why or how those words were first spoken. But _you _obviously remember, Sal, from the way you're sweating and shaking right now like an epileptic pig. _You _know you screwed me over; and for that, my dear old boss…." He extended a gloved hand, which Sal clearly saw had the madman's trademark buzzer attached to it. "…The fat lady will now sing her last big number." He started laughing in a low, ominous voice, bringing his hand nearer and nearer to Sal.

Sheer, blind panic beat in Sal's failing heart. Right before the buzzer touched him, the old man cried out, "NO! NO! IT WAS HAMMET! OLIVER HAMMET! I WAS JUST WORKING FOR HIM, ON THE SLY! I MADE THE CALL, BUT I DIDN'T KNOW HE WAS REALLY GONNA DO IT! _HE _KILLED YOUR WIFE! _HE _DID! I NEVER TOUCHED HER, I SWEAR!"

The hand froze mere inches from Sal's face.

The Joker stood stone still.

Inside the Clown Prince's mind, the world spun around and around and around….

Wife?

Wife.

Images now: a shock of sandy hair, dark blue understanding eyes, and a fire

fire huge fire fire oh God oh God she's she's in there they did it they did it OH MY GOD

The red returned all he could see was red and fire

Fire.

Had Sal survived, he might have recollected later that Joker's shrieking growl matched the buzzer attack that followed in its excruciating intensity. As it was, Joker pressed the buzzer so vehemently against the old man's heart that Sal's body stiffened in seconds. That Valestra's clenched teeth resembled a clownish grimace afterward was a totally unplanned but pleasant surprise for the panting, shaken Harlequin of Hate.


	4. Chapter 4

**Be forewarned: this is a long 'un. Lots of backstory and all that jazz. Hope you like! Also: violence and adult themes. I have decided to change my rating, tee hee.**

FOUR MONTHS LATER

He started to remember. Dammit, he didn't want to remember!

On the surface, everything had worked out for the best. Andrea "The Babe" Beaumont's pathetic attempts to kill him had failed, of course, and it gave him the perfect chance to once again fake his death, escaping the Bat.

Since leaving Valestra's electrified corpse, Joker knew he'd have to bide his time. Better sort out this whole "whack job kills all persons involved with the Beaumont thing" first, since that creep obviously wasn't ol' Batsy.

It hadn't taken Joker long to put two and two together. Hmm, little Andrea shows up in town just around the time some goofball is killing off all the people associated with her daddums's death. Gee, who do ya think it could be, Bullwinkle?

The prospect of foiling yet another foe, with the certainty that somehow or another Batman would show up, was too tantalizing for the Clown Prince to pass up. Couldn't skip town yet. Besides, he needed some time before considering the…_unsettling_ revelation from Sal. So, he'd bummed around the abandoned amusement park for a bit, flirting aggressively with the inanimate Hazel-bot, proving to no one in particular how unaffected he was by Sal's guff about some wife. Hah! The Joker, married? In Harley's dreams, maybe!

That's where "The Phantasm" found him, enjoying salami in his futuristic kitchen. The actual confrontation exceeded all expectations—not only did he get to fight both Beaumont and Batman at the same time, but it seems the ol' flying rat had feelings of a tender nature for the doomed broad! Ha ha ha! Joker just wished he could've seen Batman's pained face through the smoke as both he and Beaumont had slipped into the sewers.

This was his chance. Separated by an avalanche of debris and rock from his pursuer, who was probably toast by this point anyways, Joker was able to lay low that night in one of the many hideouts he'd established underground over the years. Perfect!

But then came memory.

That night, he lied down on a cot, letting the day's events swirl around his brain.

Ha ha ha…Beaumont had him on his knees…his hideout in flames around him…Batman had to stand and watch his lovely damsel disappear into the smoke…ha ha Batman lost a love…hah!

Lost love…how funny!

Home in flames! What a gosh darned hoot!

The erratic laughter faded on his lips as Joker fell asleep…ha ha…fire…losing…her….

Losing her.

* * *

EIGHTEEN YEARS PREVIOUSLY

"What are you doing?" Jeannie called from the kitchen.

Jack knelt by the cramped fireplace, trying to steady his trembling hands by coaxing a fire out of the embers. This damned, squat little place might not have a functioning heater, but Burkiss tried to make up for this discrepancy by listlessly pointing out the fireplace when Jack complained. This task gave him a much-needed distraction, since he would not (WOULD NOT) tell Jeannie what was going on, where he really was today.

"Can't have the best wife in the world catch cold, can I?" He responded, imitating a smug 1950s Mr. Cleaver to Jeannie's answering giggle.

He turned around and sat down at the small card table that served as their dining room setting. He gently clutched her hand as she joined him.

"Not when she's carrying my son."

"And how do you even know it's a boy, smart guy?"

"Because I bought…this today!" He reached into his bag and pulled out his gift, presenting it proudly to Jeannie's smile and rolling eyes.

"A baseball mitt already? Are you _joking_?"

"Nope!" He stuck his tongue out at her.

She returned the gesture. "What's so bad about a girl, huh? Are you scared you'll spoil your little princess rotten?"

Jack's nose crinkled in mock disgust. "A girl? Ew! Yuck! They're icky and they have cooties! I mean, look at you, for crissake! Ack!" He stuck his hands up in defeat as Jeannie playfully tossed the catcher's mitt in his face. She tried masking her laughter in a front of righteous indignation, but it didn't work, as usual.

Enjoying the sound of his wife's laughter, Jack continued. "I'm tellin' ya, Jeannie, it's a boy. It's a boy, and we're going to do everything together."

Jeannie tilted her head, thinking. "I wonder what he—or she, thank you—will be like."

"I know one thing: I hope that boy or girl, they look like you." He stared at her adoringly. "Hell, I thankfully look nothing like my dad; I take after my mom." He reached out and ran his fingers through a few stray locks of Jeannie's sandy hair, enjoying the excited shiver his touch elicited in his wife. "Can't ya see a little you, baby? Towheaded, blue eyed…."

"Aw, a little Hitler youth."

"Oh, shut up!" He smiled as she laughed at him. He loved seeing her eyes squint when she was happy, how wide that little mouth could stretch as she laughed. "Seriously, I can't wait to raise somebody who looks at me with the same love and trust that you do." His grip on her hand tightened as his eyes narrowed with determination. "And don't worry, Jeannie: your trust isn't going to waste. We're getting out of here." Carried away by his emotion, Jack took out a pamphlet for Brigadoon Acres, a starter home development in West Gotham—the good part of town.

Jeannie smiled indulgently, shaking her head at her perpetually idealistic husband. "Oh, Jack…"

"No, I mean it. This is happening. Real soon."

Too late he realized he'd said too much. Jeannie was immediately on the alert, noting the tension in his voice and expression. Her brow furrowed. "What? How? We're barely making ends meet as it is, and you're still looking for gigs. Jack…." That look was back on her face. "Jack, what's going on?"

The quiet in the room was so thick that Jack could hear the pounding in his temples, and he jumped as the fire crackled behind him. Shit. He could never keep anything from her. He cleared his throat.

"I…I've got a lead on something. Pays real good. Enough to make a down payment on a house and then some."

He felt like punching himself in the face when Jeannie's expression fell. "Jack, no." She said in a low voice.

He couldn't look at her anymore. He stared at his feet instead. Of course she'd be disappointed. Why shouldn't she be? Hadn't he promised her before they married that things would be different, that he'd never, EVER follow in his dad's footsteps?

But she hadn't had that conversation with Mrs. Burkiss last week. True, he should have told her about it, but good God, that kid had enough to worry about! She was carrying a child, dammit! He'd tried using this argument with Burkiss, who'd caught him as he was heading upstairs. She'd always had a soft spot for Jeannie.

Regret momentarily clouded the old lady's face, but it was quickly replaced with professional detachment. "Yeah, well, what do you expect me to do, Kerr? I've been nicer to you two than I am to a lotta people, but I'm not no saint! Jesus, when you're fifty-five years old"—

"You're only fifty-five?"

"—When you're fifty-five years old, and you've worked as a landlady for fifteen of those years, you see a lotta sad cases. Ya can't fall for all of 'em. I ain't heartless, but if you don't get me the rent money by next Tuesday, I'm sorry, but you're out."

Jack winced at the memory. Then he glanced back at Jeannie. To his profound relief, her eyes were shining not with anger but with deep love and understanding. She covered his hand with hers. "Your brothers?"

He nodded briefly. Who else? They were always pestering him, trying to get him to join what was left of the Kerr dynasty of criminals. Jack was the only black sheep in his family, the one who wasn't "involved." He had been too influenced by his mother, and later by Jeannie, to follow down that road. His mother Irene, with her thick auburn curls and piercing black eyes, had caught Walt Kerr's eye when he was a two-bit gangster, and figured marrying the chick would help ensure passing down the family name. Besides, she was already knocked up with Walter, Jr.

But Irene O'Donnell had her own demons—an unstable disposition, something none of the cheap doctors her family could afford ever rightfully diagnosed, beyond "well…Irene's just a little unstable, that's all." Instead of throwing herself into violence, as her husband had, Irene instead turned her fervor to God, to pacifism. She was violently religious, violently obsessed with saving the sinners in her household.

She'd tried saving her husband. It didn't work. She'd tried saving little Walt, Jr. That didn't work. She'd tried saving the twins, Benny and Finny. That didn't work.

They were all too much like their father, the same jet-black hair and arctic blue eyes. They weren't hers, none of them.

But Jack was. Jack was hers, he listened. And it wasn't just the coloring. She'd been extra attentive to him, because she recognized in him the brewing rage beneath the narrow eyes, the same rage she'd battled against, again and again. He might not have become a priest, like she'd envisioned, but he'd promised her to stay away from the sinful life the rest of their family led. He'd promised to control that temper, which at its height blew his gangster father and brothers right out of the water.

She died his senior year of high school, from a stroke when she heard that her eldest son had been shot dead by a rival gang. Jack was down one mother and one brother. If he hadn't been dating Jeannie at the time, he didn't know what would have become of him. She saved him from the grabby hands of the twins and his father, his father who died soon thereafter not from gunshot wounds, but from a heart attack.

Life can be funny, sometimes.

But Benny and Finny never gave up on him. "Hey, kid, I know you're trying to convince this child-bride you're some knight in goddamn shining armor, but that don't put food on the table. Come to us once you're starving, man."

And he had. God forgive him, he had.

"It's…it's not a big job," he tried explaining to Jeannie. "And I told 'em it's just this one time! I won't ever do it again for them. It's really safe, it's just us, just in the family."

Jeannie wasn't having any of it. "_No_! It's always the people who say they're only doing it 'one time' that get caught! And I'm telling you right now, I'm not having our child visit their father in jail. We'll get outta here Jack, but for the right reasons, the right way."

She stared him down, unflinching in that blue gaze.

What a gal, he thought. One corner of his mouth snuck upwards as he muttered, "Bossy."

"You bet I am." She waited for his answer, staring at him with all the love and determination that made up her character.

He knew in that second that with Jeannie by his side, they'd get by. Job or no job, mob or no mob. No matter what, they'd make it through.

"You're right," he finally acquiesced. "I'll get out of it." He stood as Jeannie threw herself into his embrace. He closed his eyes and breathed in those sandy locks….

However, he knew convincing the twins of his change of heart would be a different matter altogether.

"No, you won't!" Benny yelled the next day at the bar the boys ran on the side.

"Look, Jack," Finny tried explaining. "This job isn't as rinky-dink as we led you to believe. There are…other people involved, here. People that are gonna put the Kerrs back on the map."

"Whoop-dee-shit, Fin," Jack responded. "I'm more concerned about Jeannie and the baby, believe it or not."

"Right," Fin replied. "That's the whole reason you're gonna do this, man! So you and your old lady won't starve, won't have to raise your brat in poverty."

"Yeah, but Jeannie said"—

"_Jeannie_ said?" Benny yelled in his face. "Wanna know what _I_ say, bro?"

"Look, Jack, we need to get the money and files out of that damn plant you used to work at. You're the only one who knows just how lax that security is, and…shameful as I feel saying this…even with your civilian standing, you're a way better fighter than Benny and me. We need you, man."

The twins looked at their younger brother, their eyes locked intensely on his wayward face.

Jack finally spoke. "I'm sorry, guys. I really am." He stood up, threw his coat over his shoulder, and walked out past the groping of drunken prostitutes and passed out sailors.

"Shit," Benny said. "What are we gonna do, Finny?"

Finny took a puff of his cigar. "Call you-know-who. He'll think of something."

Despite not having a clue how he was going to pay Mrs. Burkiss by next Tuesday, Jack marched up the apartment stairs with a bounce in his step. Hell, he could always just go back to the Chemical plant, if Benny and Finny don't sour the place to the Kerr name. As long as he made Jeannie laugh, maybe stalling the comedy dream wouldn't be that bad. The worst part was over with; he was out of the deal. He looked down at the bouquet in his hands, smirking to himself. _She'll call me a sap, but she'll really love these._

The door was opened. He walked in. "Jeannie?"

The place was a mess. Both chairs were overturned, a half-eaten sandwich and spilled glass of milk on the table. The milk stained some of the pictures in the scrapbooks that were out for some reason, and Jack noticed that the curtain had been pulled down, lying limp and defeated on the rug.

"Jeannie?" He cried out, his voice rising frantically.

The phone rang next to him. His spine chilled, as if his body knew before his mind what the call was for.

"…Hello?"

The voice was inhumanly gravelly, obviously using something to hide the caller's identity. "If you want to see your wife again, you'll be sure to get your brothers into that chemical plant."

The pounding returned to his temples. "What…who is this? My brothers wouldn't do this. If you hurt"—

"Look, friend," the voice rasped. "Don't try playing the hero. You're the one who wanted in. _Your hands are just as dirty—dirtier_." A click ended the call.

Jack's view of the apartment, the bouquet, and the scrapbook with pictures of him and Jeannie, his love letters to her, all turned red. Red was everywhere. He could only see red. He was red.

_Your hands are just as dirty—dirtier._

Benny and Finny waited nervously in the abandoned lot behind the plant. When they heard footsteps, they both instinctively shot their hands toward their holsters. They relaxed when they saw their brother instead.

"Halleluiah, the prodigal son has returned! We were beginning to wonder if—GACK!"

"Whoa, whoa, Jack!" Benny tried to pry Jack's fingers off of Finny's throat. He'd never seen his baby brother's eyes so wild, so intense. "What's wrong with you, man?"

"You don't know?" Jack said in an eerily quiet voice.

"Know…know what?"

"Jeannie…." He swayed slightly, letting go of Finny. "Those high-up friends you got in touch with. They have Jeannie."

The twins' mouths dropped a bit. "Whoa…what, really?" Benny shifted uncomfortably. "Jeez, Jack, we didn't know they'd go that far."

Jack clenched his fists at his side. "Let's just get this over with." He accepted the switchblade Finny numbly handed to him.

The job itself went off without a hitch. Well, almost without a hitch. The twins' hearts plummeted when they reached the office to the safe, finding the door locked, and impenetrable to Jack's switchblade. They both jumped as Jack punched through the glass, and picked the key off the nail inside, right where he remembered it hanging. He didn't seem to mind or feel the blood oozing from his knuckles.

The money and papers in happy possession of the Kerr twins, they decided to escort the stiffly quiet Jack back to the apartment.

"See, bro? Nothin' to it! Now, everything will go back to normal. We'll split the bread behind your stairwell, and I'll bet you anything Jeannie will be right upstairs waiting for you."

They saw Jack's expression change. He stopped walking and stared off into the distance. Benny and Finny followed his gaze.

There was smoke in the air. Lots of it. And it was coming from…

"Jack! Wait!" Finny called as Jack started running toward the flames.

The boys just barely managed to get out of the way of a screeching ambulance, and then they marginally avoided a scrape with a fire truck.

When they reached Jack he was standing just outside a mob of people gathered around his apartment complex. Following their gazes, Benny and Finny flinched. What once was the humble abode of Mr. and Mrs. John Kerr was now nothing more than a gaping hole consumed in flames.

Close in front of the three Kerr men, a man and woman started talking.

"What happened?"  
"I heard somethin' about some sorta boiler explodin'. Gee, betcha that poor lady didn't make it. Makes ya sick."

Benny and Finny froze, their stomachs dropping.

Jack turned passively to his brothers. They both regarded him with pained eyes. "Jack…Jack….something…something must have gone wrong…wires crossed or something, we don't-"

The fire, sirens, and general mayhem distracted the crowd to such an extent that no one saw or heard John Kerr slice the throats of his two brothers. Their corpses weren't found until the next morning.

John Kerr had stood and watched the flames consume his love. And he'd died. Simple as that.

He was never heard from again. And six months later, under the avuncular guidance of Sally "The Wheezer" Valestra, Jack Napier made his first hit.

But even Napier could never fully escape the flames.

* * *

When Joker awoke, he realized he was screaming. For one startlingly lucid moment, he remembered everything, in one prolonged flash. Then it disappeared, coming back in fragmentary increments. Fire…Jeannie…fire.

Fire.

Jeannie.

JEANNIE.

Joker growled, inescapable emotions racking his body.

Oliver Hammet.

**Just thought I should mention, some of the dialogue here and most of the dialogue in Chapter 2 were adapted from Gotham Knights #54 and The Killing Joke, respectively. Hope you enjoyed! I'll try to update as frequently as I can. Meanwhile: reviews, yes?**


	5. Chapter 5

Oliver Hammet, eh?

Hee hee.

It hadn't taken Joker long to block out everything again. He never could stand anything that he couldn't turn into a game.

Therefore, four months after the Phantasm incident, Joker decided to murder Hammet for two reasons, and two reasons only: one, to teach the always valuable lesson that nobody pulls one over on the Joker and lives; and two, for chuckles.

See? No emotions necessary. No need to remember stuff. That jazz was soooo tedious.

Heh.

It was evening in Gotham. Joker sauntered casually along the embankment. His heart was filled with lightness and excited joy, as it always was when he was about to commit foul murder. Somehow, the anticipation of bloodshed always made the cool Gotham air smell so much sweeter, the wailing sirens and car alarms a delicate symphony, the soundtrack to his beloved, chaotic city.

Speaking of the city, one of these days he should really blow it up. For real, this time. Make Batman watch, and then feed him to the hyenas.

But enough digression! That can wait.

He pulled out a slip of paper from his pocket, and smilingly inspected it.

Oliver Hammet, P.I.

Central Gotham Offices

1545 Falsam Ave

While Sal Valestra was wrong in his assessment of Joker as being primarily a gangster instead of a madman, the psychopathic clown could work the system methodically when he needed to.

Especially if it served an insane goal.

Joker paused at the Falsam Avenue street sign, leaning on it with arms crossed as he chuckled at the memory of his former gang life, of the man who called himself Jack Napier.

That much memory he allowed himself sometimes.

Of course, that didn't leave much room for details. For instance, he couldn't remember how he first earned Sal's trust: handing him the files and money he had pried from his dead brothers' stiff fingers. No one knew that Sal was double-crossing his own gang by teaming up with Oliver Hammet, the corrupt Gotham cop who'd been the Kerr's secret connection.

No, everyone assumed Sal Valestra's gang was the Kerr family's chief rival. Now that both Kerr brothers were dead, and their civilian younger brother gone missing, the Kerr gang was officially extinct.

Once "The Wheezer" saw what this brooding young man with the piercing eyes had in his hands, Valestra knew. The older man had smiled a cunning, snake grin under his slick mustache and shaken the boy's hand.

"Welcome aboard, son. I'd been trying to get a hold of this information for weeks." Affecting a sort of paternal sympathy, Valestra placed a kindly hand on the young man's shoulder. "I recognize ya from when you was a teenager. I was at your house once, remember? I was trying to make peace with your old man, but you know how stubborn Walt Kerr could be. Look, I just wanna say we was all really appalled when we heard what happened to your wi-"

He was intrigued not so much by Jack's hand attaching itself forcefully to his throat, than he was by the demonic gleam in his eyes.

In a curiously hushed and even voice, the young man said, "I don't know what you're talking about. My name is Jack Napier. I'm here to work for you. That's all you'll ever need to know."

That raspy voice with it's steely control, combined with those eyes-by God, Sal had seen a lot in his years as a gangster, but never anything like the look in this punk kid's hawkish eyes—were enough to convince Sal that he had the makings of Gotham's next big thing in crime standing in front of him.

Every once in a great while, Sal could be a very shrewd man.

This was where Joker started to remember. However, like everything having to do with his past, sometimes he shifted the memories around to suit his mood. But what remained consistent in his memory was that Jack Napier had been a steady and reliable shooter, and eventually became an indispensable hit man and bodyguard in the Valestra sphere.

The kid showed no remorse. Absolutely none. That made him Sal's most prized asset.

For Jack had decided never to remember. Never indulge in nostalgia. He'd taken her pictures out of his wallet and burned them.

Malice, tightly controlled malice, took over. It was if the dam his mother had built in him since childhood to protect him from his own nature had burst, and all the pent-up anger and frustrations—_Get off the stage you slob you're about as funny as an ulcer Jack you putz why can't you be a real man like your brothers I need the rent by next Tuesday Kerr—_all of it oozed out, turning into calculating evil.

Ironically, these qualities that first convinced Sal to hire him were the same that isolated him from being considered "one of the guys," from truly earning anyone's trust.

"Gee, boss," some of the men would tell Sal, "I dunno about Napier. There's somethin' off about him…he's different from us. He…he gives me the creeps."

"Boss, could ya do something about this Napier guy? Yeesh, those eyes scare the shit outta me."

"God, he…he…really went to town on that guy's face! It…it about makes ya wanna retch. I mean, I done some mean stuff before, but this…this was _sick."_

"Boss, I can take a lot, but…but Napier was actually wearing a God damn _smirk _on his face the whole time! Even when he was knifing him, and the guy was begging and begging, Napier just stood there…_smirking."_

Sal didn't turn a deaf ear to these complaints. As much as he'd come to depend on Jack's quiet and quick expertise, after about ten years of service Sal decided it was time to cut him loose. Besides…if Jack stuck around too long, and got too close, he might just find out about…certain things from the past.

Certain things that would definitely make Sal's final resting place with the fishes.

So, it was a pleasant surprise for Sal when Jack was the one to approach him, asking for enough territory to branch out with his own gang. So grateful was Sal that he gave his bodyguard more than enough ground and starting cash to pave his way into the crime world.

Jack had become restless. A growing eagerness to call the shots, to direct his violence under his own command, seized him with uncontrollable hunger. An acute judge of character, Jack was able to scout out the best men for his new outfit: ruthless sadists that wouldn't cringe like Sal's men, but were weak enough to kowtow to his orders. Men who would kill and torture for him without question, while still fearing him.

Everything was set in place. When one of his new men told Jack that their first job was going to be at Gotham Chemical, Jack's smirk widened, and even the brutal recruit shivered at the strange light that leapt into his new boss's eyes.

As Jack stepped into the building, he felt a triumphant flutter. For the briefest of moments he allowed himself to remember his old self, for the satisfaction of savoring the contempt he felt for that schmuck.

No one was yanking him around anymore. If he wanted someone to laugh at his jokes, they sure as hell laughed now.

Not that he had time for comedy anymore. That was kids stuff. That was strictly in the past, and he only got his rocks off now by finishing his "jobs" quickly and cleanly—well, relatively cleanly. He didn't mind a little splattered blood. Souvenirs.

Thus, with a cool head and steady hand, Jack led his fresh young gang of outlaws up into the walkways above, where below lay the vats of chemical acid….

…And ain't it always the way? Just when ya think ya got life figured out, down comes a giant bat to punch you in the face and drop you into one of those vats of acid. Happens every time!

Joker's teeth appeared in a reminiscent grin beneath his thick red lips, the new false tooth (a souvenir from his recent scuffle with you-know-who) shining in it's pristine whiteness next to the big yellowing ones around it.

He loved this part of the story.

Wrenching himself from the pipes outside the factory, Jack stumbled to the swampy reservoir and leaned over its bank. _Good God, his face itched, burned! Urrgh! Where the hell did that Bat creep come from? _

He threw his hands off his face, falling to his knees. Water. He needed to end this burning.

He was just about to splash the water onto his face when the clouds cleared. He saw his reflection.

He stared.

And stared and stared and stared.

He…that…that _thing…_that couldn't be….

Couldn't be _him._

Huh.

Heh.

Ha.

Something's snapping….

He…

He was a…

Something snapped.

HA HA HA HA HOO HO HAAAAAAH HA HA HA HA HAAAAA!

He…he was a _masterpiece_! A masterpiece, I say! How brilliant! How mind-numbingly, gut-wrenchingly, _beautifully _brilliant! Of…of course! He'd been so wrong, so stupid!

Comedy wasn't kids stuff! It was the secret to life!

Green white red YES!

Ha ha ha! After all, isn't this transformation the best punch line in human history? Loser couldn't make it as a comic…became a wise guy gangster instead…snicker…then…ha ha ha…and then TURNED INTO A GREEN-HAIRED, PASTY-FACED, CRIMSON-LIPPED, FABULOUS LOON!

HAAAAAAA HA HA HA!

This was it! This was what he was meant for! Mayhem! Murder! Bring the world to its knees! But by golly, make sure you do it with a smile on your face, and a laugh in your heart! Spread the laughter, Jack!

Jack?

No, it was Jake.

Right?

No….Jerry!

Nuh-uh, that wasn't right either.

Come, now! What did names matter? Whoever he was before this gorgeous new makeover was totally and completely irrelevant! What mattered now was his new life's purpose, to teach the world what he now knew with crystallized certainty: the whole of life was a joke! Including pain! The trick was to create that pain yourself, and then laugh at it! Bring pain and chaos to others, and laugh in their faces until they see you're right! It _is _funny! It _is!_

Right, Batman?

The Batman.

Yes.

Yes. He'd teach the Batman how to laugh, one painful lesson at a time. He owed it to his creator to bestow him the gift of laughter.

After all, what are Jokers for?

* * *

Joker sighed in contentment at the memory of that precious revelation. Yes, life is one painful joke after another, until the pain becomes the funny part, the punch line.

He consulted his watch. He straightened and headed toward office building 1545. Oliver Hammet was about to become the funniest punch line of all.

**Hope this didn't come off as filler or anything. I thought it was important to show Joker's transformation from John Kerr to Jack Napier, and Napier to the Joker. Things are going to pick up in the next chapter, which, if I can finish my homework quickly, might be up later tonight. Hopefully. If not, stay patient! It will be up soon, I promise! Thanks for reading! Lemme know in the reviews if you love/hate/are indifferent to/made gassy by this chapter and all the others!**


	6. Chapter 6

"Theresa," Oliver Hammet called, his nose deep in the files and photographs scattered about his desk.

He didn't even look up as his assistant walked into the room.

"Yeah, Mr. Hammet?" She was casually chomping on gum, filing her nails. No other office in the world would have allowed such a lack of decorum, but Oliver Hammet didn't seem to care. 'Course, he didn't seem to care much about anything, seemed to look at everything in the world in the same clinically detached light.

Theresa liked working with Mr. Hammet. Well, _liked _maybe wasn't the word, but he sure wasn't a pain in the ass like other Brother Shamuses she'd worked for. He wasn't kind or considerate—ha, who was in Gotham? —But he didn't look at her in _that way _or anything like that. Mostly he didn't look at anything in any particular way. It was kinda creepy in a sense, but who was she to complain. "What can I do for ya, sir?"

"Got any hot plans tonight?"

Theresa stiffened. _Oh, great,_ she thought bitterly. _Guess he's not as robotic as I thought. Yeesh, the creep isn't even looking up from his papers. What a smooth operator!_

She sucked in a breath. Better just play ball. "No, Mr. Hammet. I was just gonna go home and watch T.V. and-"

"Good," he interrupted flatly. "Then it won't bother you to work late tonight." Eyes still on the compromising photos in front of him, Hammet carelessly shoved a pile of folders into her manicured hands. "Organize 'em by date—_date, _y'hear me, not alphabetically—and anything past five years ago, shred."

He returned to his work.

He ignored the exasperated whinnying sound his assistant made and circled the secretary of commerce's cheating wife's face with red pen, making a notation: "Worth 30, maybe 40 g?" He scratched the stubble on his chin. Should he get in touch with Mrs. Greene himself, giving her a chance to…_persuade_ him not to tell his client, her husband? A woman like that would obviously have a pretty generous allowance at her disposal. And even if she didn't, well…well, what's that to him? He'd just hand the pics on over to Secretary Greene….

Just business. That's all.

Hammet took off his glasses, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. His graying hair turned a snowy white in the dim light of his desk lamp. Except for his desk, overflowing with his work, the small office on 1545 Falsam Avenue was meticulously organized and free of clutter, if not a little dusty with collecting cobwebs in the corners.

Oliver Hammet never lost track of anything, never lost control of a situation. Save twice. Save twice in his lifetime.

The first time….

…The second time had landed him here. In this stinkin' office, pouring over dirty pictures of spoiled Richey-riches making damned fools of themselves, left and right.

The sex, the drugs, the sobbing wives and husbands begging Oliver not to tell, that they'd pay more than their spouses were paying him, _as long as he doesn't tell_.

Weakness. Pathetic weakness.

Oliver Hammet was _not _weak.

He was simply a rational man who seized whatever opportunities came his way. That's all.

He took a sip of weak coffee, making a face at its lackluster taste. A surge of contempt for not only his inept assistant but for the entire set-up threatened to take hold of him. But as quick as it came up, he expertly and coolly stamped it down again.

What's done is done. Live and learn.

Yes, he'd learned and he'd lived: learned never to try and blackmail your new Commissioner for a promotion with faulty information; information that had only been a trap set by this same Commissioner to see if Hammet would take the bait, if the quiet rumors about the cop's corruption were true.

Damn Gordon.

That had been about ten years ago. Luckily, some of the connections Hammet had established over the years were still able to wrangle him this office space and this position.

His was a name whispered in back rooms belonging to dirty politicians or gang bosses, when the snapshots more legitimate private dicks took weren't dirty enough, not vile enough, not _incriminating _enough.

His name wasn't much mentioned outside these smoky, quiet rooms. Certainly never in polite, sunny daytime.

It was a living.

So, he'd learned and he'd lived. And that was that.

His door opened again. Still contemplating Mrs. Greene in flagranti, he said, "Theresa, this coffee's crap. Don't put so much water in it."

"Oh, I'll be sure to pass on the message, Hammie! Can't have Gotham's best, dirtiest PI fall asleep on the job! Think of all the marriages that wouldn't be destroyed! All the gangsters and politicians with no one to bribe! Total madness in the streets! Ha ha ha!"

For the first time in a long, long while, Oliver Hammet's expression changed into something a close observer might label as surprise: his eyes widened a fraction of an inch. They appeared to Joker like two moist, dark olives peeking out over sagging bags of tired flesh.

The Clown Prince could hear the pretty young bimbo in the outer room whimpering, where he had left her cowering when he first stepped into the office.

He stared at Hammet and Hammet stared at him.

Finally, the PI raised his thick, wintry eyebrows politely but wearily. "And how can I help you, sir?" His voice was clear but toneless, giving away nothing.

The Joker didn't like it. Where was the fear, that delicious, cowering, tearful fear? Even under the best of circumstances, Joker expected people come face to face with him to show something akin to shock and dismay! And this was no ordinary matter. _Didn't this man know who he was, and how this man had ruined him?_

Then it suddenly dawned on Joker.

The man didn't know.

Didn't know that Joker had been….

Of course….

The red frown Hammet's composure had momentarily put on Joker's face gradually stretched again into that ominous, ghastly grin as a new course of action played out in his mind. His eyes narrowed until they were off-white slits, the dark pupils narrowed in on Hammet.

"Let's talk!" The clown announced jauntily. He jumped noisily into the chair in front of Hammet's desk. Joker leaned back, resting his feet with a resounding thump on the ex-cop's files.

The man didn't even flinch. He simply folded his hands diplomatically. "Let's talk," he agreed, letting Joker set the pace.

The Joker simply continued smiling for a moment, taking him in. Even though the black hair and mustache were sprinkled with grey, and the skin age-spotted and sagging, Joker could tell that Oliver Hammet must have been a formidable presence when he was on the force. His broad shoulders and even glare were evidence enough of that.

_No wonder chumps like Sal trust this goon with their dirtiest duties. _He was obviously a man in perfect control of his emotions and his affairs, and the deference he gave to his clients must trick them into thinking him both ruthless and straight—two qualities you'd want in a private eye.

Only Joker was a better judge of character. He knew right away this guy was a snake: he was quiet and concise, but only for his own purpose. He'd swallow you up if it could get him a couple of bucks.

_Hmm, had circumstances been different, I coulda actually liked this guy! Ha ha!_

As it was, however….

Joker sprang his impromptu new strategy into action. "I'll tell ya, Hammie, I've been thinking pretty heavily since our dear, mutual friend Sally Valestra huffed his last oxygen a few months back."

Joker snuck a glance out of the corner of his hawk eye. No change in the man's expression. Hammet didn't deny or confirm any connection, just sat there with his patient, steady gaze locked on Joker's face.

_Hee hee, just you wait, you sap!_

"Yes, I've been thinking of dear ol' Sal quite a lot since I killed him. And, y'know? I'm thinking I might like back in the action!" He placed a hand on his chest, his face smug. "As you might already know, Hammie, I have quite an extended background with Sal and his gang. Back in the day, I was Sally's go-to man! That was…a while ago. Oh, how the times have changed, am I right?" He rested his chin in his hand, his eyes half-closed in mock reminiscence. He stared pointedly at the salacious photographs on Hammet's desk, as if pointing out just how much times had changed for certain individuals.

Oliver Hammet ignored this pointed insult and spoke. "I heard certain rumors about your prior involvement with the Valestra gang, but unfortunately my own relations with Mr. Valestra were severed shortly before you entered his employ, if I remember the dates correctly."

"That's it!" Joker announced happily, pointing a finger at Oliver. "That's what I want to talk to you about!" He set his feet on the ground as he leaned forward, his elbows on the table, locking his hands together in front of Hammet's face, the index fingers pointed upward. "If I'm going to take over the old man's affairs, there are a few tedious details I want to iron out first. That's where you fit in, Hammie! Tell me," he smiled lazily, placing his chin on top of his hands. "Just how _did _you come to sever relations with Mr. S. Valestra, hmmm? Spare me no filthy, bloody detail, by the way! Y'never know what'll be important later…plus I just like hearing about filth and blood. Heh!"

Joker's smile was so wide, that while he waited for Hammet to answer his cheeks grew sore. But Joker never paid that any mind, it had happened many a time.

Hammet considered.

Then he shrugged. "Very well. Here's what happened."

And he told him. And Joker listened.

All he wanted to hear was Hammet's direct involvement with a minimal mention of…of…that other…stuff.

But he guessed when he said, "spare no detail," Hammet had interpreted that to mean…spare no detail.

So Joker had to hear.

Luckily, his mad mind reflexively detached at some point, the words running together without making much conscious impact besides a slight burning in his temples and chest, and a very tiny, tiny, insignificant voice of sanity that Joker usually ignored actually served him well this time, warning him away from listening to Hammet, the voice whispering in a rushed voice, _don't listen don't think about it don't think about him carrying her body in his arms OH GOD her neck no no don't hear it don't even think it madness madness is fun DON'T LISTEN TO THAT PART _

Thanks to the combination of this small voice and his own instinct to separate himself from that part of the past, Joker was able to skip over those parts while still understanding most of what Hammet had done to him.

None of the details really penetrated his mind.

Until one thing he said.

Joker sat still. He then asked Hammet to repeat it.  
He did.

The world spun around and around and around

Oliver Hammet stopped his discourse and stared at the Joker for the first time with some semblance of wariness.

The madman was cradling his head in his hands, laughing and groaning by turns.

Oliver squinted, trying to get a closer assessment of Joker's face. Like the sounds coming out of him, his expressions were also constantly shifting between menacing glee and cringing pain, his teeth showing in a snarl beneath his lips.

Oliver looked closer.

_A snapshot from the past. A picture of a man and a woman laughing together at a carnival. Sal puffed on his cigar, and pointed at the man. "That's him, Ollie. And that's the dame keepin' him from doin' you-know-what. What do you think?" Oliver looked closely at the expression on the man's laughing face as he watched his equally happy wife. "I think it'll be pretty easy to persuade Mr. John Kerr to cooperate."_

That face, that face full of love. This face in front of him full of madness and pain.

It was too late for Oliver to do anything. Joker was already reaching with trembling hands for the Joker toxin inside his trench coat.

Theresa bolt upright from where she had been cringing at her desk, hearing the screams of her boss and the rollicking, mad laughter of the Joker from behind that closed door. She knew she couldn't leave without either of them hearing, this damn office was so small and old! Her blood chilled as she heard Hammet's screams quickly graduate into uncontrollable, insatiable laughter to rival his attacker's. Then there was a terrible gagging, choking sound.

Then nothing.

Theresa listened and listened.

Nothing.

She very quietly eased herself out of her chair and slid over to listen at the door. Not a sound. Not a single, solitary sound.

Suddenly she remembered: _the window! Mr. Hammet has a window in his room! Joker must've climbed out._

Ironically, Theresa was one of those girls during movies that always wondered why the prom queen walked into the dark room when the killer was right behind the door….

Theresa's screams at the rictus-like grin on her dead boss's face didn't last long.

Afterward Joker stood over them panting, not really taking in his surroundings.

All he heard or thought of were Hammet's last words concerning what happened eighteen years ago.

Revelations like that can change a clown's idea of life in an instant.


	7. Chapter 7

_Three months later…._

Jackie glanced at her young charge over her geography lesson book and swallowed a giggle.

"Are we getting just a wee bit antsy there, Mr. Drake?"

Tim blinked, turning away from the window he'd been gazing out of longingly. "Huh?" He blinked again, taking his thoughts away from high-speed chases and batarangs. "Uh…uh…." He stared at the laughing blue eyes of his tutor and smiled sheepishly. "Uh…sorry, Jackie."

"It's okay. You shall live." She closed the book and sat back on the couch opposite Tim. "So. What's on your mind?"

Tim let out a deep breath, relieved that his favorite part of the lesson had come, when their studies were done, and he could just sit back and talk to Jackie. Just talk—no need to be on guard, no need to be embarrassed about discussing his aspirations and interests.

'Course he had to edit out the specifics concerning the whole Robin thing. She still didn't know.

When Bruce first told Tim that he was getting a tutor, the combined efforts of his adopted father and Alfred couldn't keep Tim's groaning and whining in check. What'd he need a tutor for, anyways? He got by with Alfred's teachings, and besides, why'd he need to know about treaties and geography when he was fighting crime?

But Bruce's look had brooked no room for argument. "Believe me, Tim. You'll thank me later." Tim was slightly suspicious of those words, given the dark undertone in Bruce's voice when he spoke.

But heck, when was Bruce ever _not _dark?

So he'd swallowed his suspicions and numbly accepted his fate. No matter what Bruce's motivations were, Tim would have to suffer through until Bruce realized that Tim was better off without an outside tutor. What flummoxed him the most about this situation was that Bruce was actually letting the tutor move in—_come on, _talk about risky! Suppose she started snooping around, and…?

Again, Bruce had turned a deaf ear to the young Robin's complaints, and eventually the day came when Alfred practically had to push Tim downstairs to meet this new intrusion into the boy's already not-too-stable life.

She was standing in the foray inside the front door, speaking to her new employer, her satchel in hand.

Tim stared doggedly at his feet until Alfred's soft cough caught his attention.

Bruce was speaking. "Tim, this is Jackie North, your new tutor."

"Hey, there!"

"Hey," Tim mumbled. Alfred subtly nudged the young boy in the shoulder, until, rolling his eyes, Tim finally looked up.

Looked up into the friendliest face he'd ever seen.

There was something about Jackie North that just instantly invited one's confidence. For Tim it had something to do with the conspiratorial glint in those warm, midnight blue eyes, the way they squinted with lively camaraderie when she smiled. "How ya doin'?" she asked, her dark blonde bangs falling into her eyes.

The casual, unpretentious tone of her slightly husky voice, combined with that wide smile, earned Tim's immediate trust.

She quickly became a beloved fixture in the Wayne household, though she'd only been there three months. After winning Tim over, she'd next bewitched Alfred with her easy, unobtrusive help around the house and her quirky high spirits.

"Not only is she a great help with house cleaning and caring for Master Drake, Master Wayne," he told Bruce one day, "But she also puts me in mind of one of those gamine waifs from classic French film, such as Leslie Caron or Françoise Dorleac--the latter of whom I think she shares a slight physical resemblance. Like those actresses, Miss North exudes an almost tomboyish, but still very feminine pluck, very charming and--"

"Alfred," Bruce interrupted, looking up from his newspaper.

"Yes, Mr. Wayne?"

"If you're done gushing about Miss North, I'd like you to remember _why she's here." _He gave his butler a meaningful look.

Alfred inclined his head. "Yes, sir."

"Look out for her, Alfred."

"Sir, you don't really think that _she'd--"_

"No. But even having her here invites trouble. But for her safety, it's a risk worth taking."

"Very good, sir," Alfred said, pouring his master another cup of coffee. As he left the dining hall, he heard Bruce mutter, "And I can't imagine Jackie speaking in a French accent."

Jackie had next won over Barbara Gordon, who stopped by often to discuss strategy for protecting the city with Bruce—telling everyone else she was just there to discuss future charity events. Barbara had discovered an indispensable girlfriend in the easy-going Jackie, something rare in her life. They'd go shopping together, making fun of chick flicks and eating junk food on late, quiet nights when Batman and Robin roamed the streets without Batgirl, and Bruce and Tim had…gone out for a bit. It was so nice to let loose with someone, and have someone to joke around with. It was so easy to laugh with Jackie.

Even knowing the truth about her.

Between Bruce, Alfred, and Barbara, they had decided not to let Tim _or _Jackie know. They wanted Tim to feel comfortable around his tutor, and their resolve only hardened when he grew more and more attached to the young woman.

As for Jackie…well, hopefully she'd never have to find out the truth.

Her lessons were just the right balance of hard work and humor—though she could go off on tangents that lost Tim until he called her back. And she found him an incredibly apt and willing student, except for times like this when his mind wandered off listlessly. She smiled as he regaled her with stories about how cool that Batman guy was, and how the new Robin was way better than the old one.

"Don't you think so, Jackie?"

"Hm? I dunno…I always thought the older Robin was kind of cute. Y'know, cute as a masked guy _can_ be."

"Whatever," Tim said testily, crossing his arms and rolling his eyes.

Jackie muffled another laugh. Tim sure did relate to this new Robin, discussing him at great length when their lessons were done. No big surprise, Robin and Tim were probably near the same age. Relenting, Jackie said, "Of course, a younger guy accomplishing all those feats is _so _much more impressive."

Tim's face lit up again. "Yeah! That's what _I've _been saying!"

Jackie laughed freely this time, standing up. "Hey, here's a plan: we've been sitting cooped up since morning, and the weather's pretty nice out. Why don't you grab the football and I'll put on something less…school marm-ish. Meet you outside in about ten minutes?"

"Great!" Crime had been slow lately in Gotham, and while that was good and all, Tim had grown a little stir-crazy as a result. He bounded upstairs.

Jackie stretched her arms above her head, and with lazier steps than Tim's headed upstairs to her room in the East Wing.

Jackie was very adaptable. However, she still found herself a little dazed at the sheer size of the Wayne mansion. While she hadn't led an exactly Dickensian existence at the North Gotham Orphanage, where she grew up and received her surname, luxuries hadn't been plentiful. Therefore, living at the Wayne mansion made her feel a little ridiculous, as much as she loved staying there.

She still didn't know how she'd gotten this job, or how Mr. Wayne had even heard about her. Maybe word had spread about her test scores: it wasn't every day an inner-city orphan with few resources tested as a genius.

At age eighteen, she'd been out of high school for two years, having been skipped ahead in the state-run boarding school she'd gone to. She already had quite a few college credits under her belt, having sat in on classes for free by providing tutoring for the writing, math, and science centers, the last one becoming her particular favorite. She especially loved engineering.

However, she'd found herself enjoying teaching even more. In exchange for serving as a live-in tutor for Tim, Wayne had set her up with a full-time scholarship to the college of her choice after Tim passed middle school.

All in all, a pretty sweet gig.

Jackie walked into her bedroom; kept neat and orderly by her own habit and Alfred's meticulous attention. Though she adored Alfred, Jackie always objected to his cleaning her room, since she could not grow accustomed to people looking after her.

_She'd _always been the one who, if not actually taking care of other people, provided them support and a shoulder to cry on. This was no small gift in an orphanage. Since childhood she'd remembered sitting up at night with the few girls like her who were never adopted, stroking their hair as they cried—because sometimes their losses became too real for them, and they'd break down, their heads either buried in their pillows or her lap.

Jackie thought back to that time, pulling on a ratty sweater over her tank top. She sat down at her vanity, pulling her long hair into a loose ponytail. She didn't think she had the problem those kids did, since she'd apparently been deposited with little ado outside the orphanage doors shortly after she was born. She never knew her parents, and therefore didn't feel entitled to the sense of loss those who remembered felt.

Like Mr. Wayne.

Of all the members of the Bruce Wayne sphere, he was ironically the only one she hadn't established any meaningful bond with. It wasn't that he was outright cruel or cold, or anything like that—but he locked himself off from her, and she thought she sometimes saw a wary and regretful look in his eyes when he saw her.

Jackie wasn't judgmental by nature, and having grown up in a town where the orphan rates were unusually high, Jackie recognized the hard shell he developed. She'd seen it with many of her friends, friends who thought if you acted tough enough, eventually that toughness would take over.

And nothing could hurt you.

No, Jackie did not feel entitled to claiming that kind of pain for herself. What she felt was something different altogether, a wistful regret at never knowing. Yet she tried not thinking about it very much: really, what good would it do? Whoever left her there at the doorsteps of the orphanage had made a conscious decision, leaving her with only a first name and one other relic.

Jackie unlocked one of her drawers, desiring to see that relic now. Every once in awhile, when she _did_ feel loss, she reached out for this physical relic of wherever it was she came from.

She held it in her hands now, turning it over. As old and beat up with age as it had become, she'd recognize her catcher's mitt anywhere.


	8. Chapter 8

**All right, this should be the last big flashback scene. Because of which, this is another long 'un! It probably also has the most disturbing content of any of my previous chapters, at least in my opinion. So be warned! I'll try to make future chapters not quite so depressing, I swear….**

* * *

_Eighteen years previously..._

Mrs. Burkiss hated feeling awkward. She tapped her fingers nervously on the Kerr's sorry excuse for a dining room table, trying to affect impatient disinterest as Jeannie made herself a sandwich.

"Thanks for coming, Mrs. B," the young woman said, spreading mayonnaise over a piece of bread. "Sorry about puttering around in the kitchen like this, but pregnant lady need food, need food right now. Are you sure I can't get you anything?"

"Yeah, I'm sure," Mrs. Burkiss said. She inspected her dirty false nails. They were a better sight than Jeannie, humming some TV theme song, trying to move around that pitifully cramped kitchen, that baby bulk hanging off her frame.

Yeah, Mrs. Burkiss's nails were much nicer to contemplate than watching the kid trying to function in this squalor.

Jeannie finally sat down, her sandwich and glass of milk in hand. "You absolutely sure you don't want anything? I feel awkward stuffing my face while you-"

"Yeah, yeah, kid, I'm fine!" The landlady practically snapped. Guilt was getting to her, and Beatrice Burkiss hated feeling guilty even more than feeling awkward. Guilt was only a weakness in this line of work, and it was more productive to get angry.

Most of her tenants, including Jeannie's husband, shied away when Mrs. Burkiss snapped at them. She looked older and frailer than she was, but nobody could miss that fiery, no-nonsense spirit in her words and expressions. That spirit enabled her to look after this building for fifteen years without going absolutely nuts.

But Jeannie never shrank back, never gave any indication that the old lady had lost her temper. She always just continued smiling that small, easy grin, her heavy-lidded blue eyes friendly as ever.

Not that Mrs. Burkiss ever lost her temper much with Jeannie. For one thing, the girl never usually warranted it, and for another, it was hard to get upset with such a…well, such a _nice girl._

An actual, honest-to-God "nice girl" was difficult to find in these parts, pretty much impossible. Therefore, Mrs. Burkiss was slightly in awe of Jeannie, though the landlady would never admit it, even to herself. She grudgingly admitted fondness for her, even an admiration at her pluck in these pathetic circumstances, but Mrs. Burkiss did _not _idolize nobody, certainly not some knocked-up, teenage tenant.

Right?

Her attention shifted to Jeannie, who had started speaking. "So, about why I asked you here. I was wondering if you could find me some work."

Mrs. Burkiss blinked, surprised. She had expected another plea to extend their rent, or at least not to kick them out quite yet. But work? "What? Really? Listen, Jeannie, you're pregnant! Ya never even graduated from high school-"

For once, Jeannie showed irritation, her brow furrowing. "Not true! I got my GED shortly before I found out I was pregnant! Jack was very supportive, and helped me study while we were moving in to this place."

Mrs. Burkiss dismissed her protest with a flick of her wrist. "Whatever, whatever. That don't change the fact you got a baby bump all the way from here to Texas. Whattaya gonna do about that, missy? Work as a waitress, balancing the tray on your stomach, huh?"

Jeannie snorted at the image those words evoked, and Mrs. Burkiss rolled her eyes. Yeesh, everything's such a joke to these two! "I'm serious, Jeannie."

The younger woman's face quickly sobered. "I am, too. I meant something I could do to help _you_ out, something around the building, like…like…I dunno, I can still vacuum! Maybe wash some windows? Just something for a little extra cash." She startled Burkiss by gently taking her hand. "Look, I know it's been hard on you keeping Jack and me on like this. I really appreciate it, we both do. I want to pay you back." Her kind eyes regarded Mrs. Burkiss with frank understanding. "You're gonna have to evict us, aren't you?" She asked in a soft voice.

Mrs. Burkiss swallowed and looked away. "Huh! Didn't know that husband of yours had the stones to tell you."

Jeannie cleared her throat, suddenly a little awkward herself. "Well…well, he didn't exactly _tell_ me. I could just…I could just sorta tell, y'know? By the way he was acting." _Well, that and the fact that he felt pressured enough to make a deal with the mob. What else could have made him break his promise to his mother, to me? _Jeannie looked nervously at the clock on the oven. _He's probably done backing out of it now. I hope to God Ben and Finny took it well!_

She shook away her ruminations and returned her attention to Mrs. Burkiss. "I understand you have to do what you have to do. But if I earn a little money on the side, I could help pay off some of what we owe you! And I'm confident that any day now, Jack will find something that-"

Mrs. Burkiss couldn't take it anymore. "Oh, puh-_lease, _honey! How many times have I heard that line now? I ain't blamin' _you, _ya understand; it's that damned hubby of yours! He ain't found somethin' yet, what makes you so sure he'll find somethin' in the future?"

"Because he's got such a great talent!" Jeannie stated emphatically.

"Oh, yeah? Then why don't the audiences see it?"

"Because…because…." Jeannie's loyal voice tapered off as she realized she couldn't answer the woman's question. Why _couldn't _they see it? Why is it that when all it took for Jeannie was a cock-eyed glance from Jack to get her laughing, these audiences couldn't care less for his best jokes?

Had Jeannie a treacherous bone in her body, the answer would have smacked her right in the face: his temper. He'd never get anywhere with that temper always making him fly off the handle at the most benign comment from a heckler, and when it kept him from thinking straight enough to remember a punch line.

It was better when Jeannie was around. He could calm down then. When they first married and he'd decided to try his hand at comedy, things went pretty well for a while. Because she was there. She was there in the audience, laughing whole-heartedly even when the audience was lackluster in its response. Strangely enough, audiences started laughing because of her, because of Jeannie-because there was something touchingly charming about a pretty, nice looking girl sputtering out her drink, as she laughed with graceless abandon. It made audiences chuckle just at her amusement.

Yet managers have a way of finding out when the nice looking girl who keeps sneaking in is only seventeen-years old. Most of Jack's engagements at nightclubs allowed him to bend the "only twenty-one or older" rule because he was a performer, but not for Jeannie. Plus, when she got pregnant, Jack became so protective as to prohibit her from hob-knobbing with his careless and drunk audiences.

And without Jeannie's steadying presence out there, things had started spiraling downward quickly.

Jeannie sighed, frustrated she was unable to properly defend her boy in front of Mrs. Burkiss. She finally said, "He's just ahead of everybody else. He's Lenny Bruce mixed with Danny Kaye. People don't get him yet. But they will! They _have _to."

"Your loyalty to him is real touching, kiddo. But that still don't pay the rent. Jeez, you're not even an adult yet, and you're throwin' your life away for him!"

"I am _too _an adult," Jeannie said proudly. "Well, technically. I turned eighteen three months ago." She grinned mischievously, reaching for one of the scrapbooks on the small shelf behind her. "Here's the proof." She flipped open the flimsy book until she found what she was looking for. "Take a look at this. It's from Jack."

Mrs. Burkiss leaned in to get a look at where Jeannie was pointing, at a cheap card from one of those endless gift shops. The sappy message was crossed out, and the teddy bear on the card was wearing an inked in mustache and pair of glasses. Obviously Jack had had fun with this birthday card before giving it to her. Mrs. Burkiss read aloud, " 'Dear Mrs. Teasdale, thank you for turning eighteen so I don't have to be a dirty old man anymore. You're aces, kid—I couldn't do any of this without you. Happy eighteenth, baby. With all the love in my heart, Rufus T. Firefly.'" Mrs. Burkiss frowned, not well known for her sense of humor. "Huh? I don't get it. Who the hell are Mrs. Teasdale and Rufus T. Firefly?"

Jeannie laughed. "Haven't you ever seen Duck Soup, the Marx Brothers movie?" When Mrs. Burkiss shook her head, Jeannie placed her chin in her hand, her eyes sleepy with remembrance, and a soft smile playing on her face. "It was our first date. I remember it was playing at that theater downtown that runs old movies. We love the Marx Brothers. Whenever I wanna make him mad, I tell him Zeppo is my favorite." She giggled as Mrs. Burkiss continued staring at her as if she'd grown another head. "Sorry, I know I'm not making much sense. But you just have no idea how much _fun _Jack is."

"I hear he wasn't so fun sometimes in school. Didn't he get in trouble a lot?"

"Oh, sure. Jack was in a bad place back at school. He wanted to please his mom by staying away from gangs. But if you're a guy and you don't act tough at North Gotham High, life can be pretty miserable for you. So, he played along for a while, acting up in class and getting into fights at the drop of a hat. I mean, his temper was a part of it, too; I'm not blind to the fact Jack's got a bit of a short fuse. But mostly he got in trouble for his pranks." Her smiled widened. "He was the class clown. Still is. That's why I told him he should get into comedy after we married, since the Chemical Plant was driving him crazy with boredom."

Mrs. Burkiss stared at her dumbstruck. "You mean the comedy was _your _idea? Huh. Here I thought that _he _was the irresponsible one."

"Well, it was both our decision, really. He'd been talking about it since high school, and I just encouraged him."

"And what did your parents have to say about it?"

Jeannie shrugged. "My parents…well, I don't really _have _parents. I've been bounced around from foster home to foster home as long as I can remember. I'd been staying with one family for about four years before Jack proposed. They consented because they were planning to move anyways, and didn't want to deal with an extra mouth to feed anymore. They say my biological dad was killed overseas before I was born, and that my mom died having me. I don't know for sure, though. Anyways, I've never exactly had what you'd call a steady home life. Before Jack, that is." She patted her full belly gently. "We're going to give this kid everything I never had."

Jeannie's soft eyes were locked so reverently on her pregnant stomach that Burkiss practically winced from a fresh attack of guilt. She decided, as she usually did when with Jeannie, to push the guilt onto her husband. "Kinda hard to imagine givin' that kid much of anythin' when your husband can't even afford to get you a proper birthday present, besides a funny card."

Irritation again etched itself onto Jeannie's face. "I'm not _talking _about money. Anybody can have money; I want our child to feel…to feel…y'know, like they have _parents. _People who love them unconditionally! I mean, I stayed at a few families that were pretty well off, but it became pretty clear to me that I was just a pet project for them, not a real child. I'd rather my kids feel like they really belonged than be surrounded by luxury." Her voice gentled. "I _trust _Jack. He's got such talent. Me, I don't have a talented bone in my body. You've tasted my cooking. I mean, _he's _the certified genius; I could barely pass high school algebra. I mean, I'm no dummy, but c'mon: who's been the one forced to earn the rent all this time? Not me. Jack's had to bear this burden. So I don't really _care _if he can't afford a fancy present for my birthday. Besides," she said perking up, and reaching into another drawer, "He gets me small presents all the time." She giggled. "Look at what he got our kid!" She held up the catcher's mitt, putting it on. "Pretty snazzy, huh?"

Later, even Mrs. Burkiss couldn't remember how she would have responded. She might have pointed out how unrealistic Jeannie's dreams were, considering that it's hard to make a kid feel loved when you always have to worry about money. She might have told Jeannie that there was nothing around the complex the expecting mother could do, and they might as well start looking elsewhere for living arrangements. She might have let the rent go again. Or she might have just snorted derisively at the baseball glove, pointing out how impractical such a gift was when she needed their rent money.

Any response froze on her lips as the door to the apartment was kicked in. Both women paled as a tall, broad-shouldered man stood in the doorway, a black ski mask covering his features, save for his dark brown eyes. Jeannie and Mrs. Burkiss stood so suddenly they knocked back both their chairs, staring at this tall stranger and his penetrating eyes.

Those eyes stared out calmly, without panic or that much interest. "Two of you. That's unfortunate." While his voice had the bark of unquestioning authority in it, he kept it as even and uninterested as his eyes. "I'm sorry about this, ladies, but you'll both have to come with me, please. It would be best for all involved if you were to come quietly."

He reached out a strong, gloved hand in what might have struck the two women as a ridiculous display of politeness, had they not been so frightened. Mrs. Burkiss drew in a deep breath. "We better just do what he says, kid." She put her hands up and walked toward him.

But stopped as the curtain rod came down with a thud on the man's head. "Ow! Dammit!" The man yelled, an animalistic growl growing in his voice. He stared with searing eyes at Jeannie. She clutched the rod with glowing eyes and her lips drawn in a tight, uncompromising line. She struggled to lift the rod again.

Taking two long strides, the man knocked the rod away with little effort, then just as swiftly had the struggling girl in a headlock. Ignoring her twisting and writhing in his grasp, he covered her mouth with one hand and reached in his pocket with the other. Pulling out a damp washrag, he pressed it against her squirming face. Jeannie went limp in his arms.

"Just chloroform," the man said, calm again. He pulled out his gun and pointed it at Mrs. Burkiss, who had tried taking advantage of the struggle by searching for a weapon of her own. She'd only succeeded in jostling the table, spilling the glass of milk and catching their assailant's attention. "Now, now, ma'am. You had it right the first time. Let's move along quietly."

* * *

Jeannie felt like clouds were passing before her eyes. Or heavy smog. She tried speaking, but her words came out as a whimper, like when you're half asleep during a bad dream and trying to call out.

A harsh but caring voice echoed in her ears. "Take it easy, sweetheart. I'm here."

The smog cleared. Mrs. Burkiss's wrinkled face, with it's cracked foundation and heavy mascara stared down at her with eyes so sympathetic they almost hid her fear. "You're gonna be okay."

Mrs. Burkiss…the curtain…that man….

Jack and the baby.

Jeannie's eyes widened as she sat up. "What? Where the hell am I? Ooh…." Having shot up far too quickly, Mrs. Burkiss helped her ease back down again onto the cot.

"Baby, you're in a hell of a mess, that's where you are," Mrs. Burkiss answered. She smoothed Jeannie's sandy hair as the girl took in her surroundings. She was lying on a cot. None too comfortable. The only light in the small room came from a desk lamp in the corner, where she saw the outline of a man sitting, calmly reading the paper next to a phone.

"Who…?" She asked quietly of her landlady, who was sitting on a stool beside her.

"Our friend with the ski mask. Says he's just 'trying to make Mr. Kerr cooperate.' What the hell is he talking about?"

Jeannie closed her eyes as soon as the meaning drifted in past what was left of the chloroform, her heart filled with regret and confusion. _Oh God, Jack, I'm so sorry…how could I have known they'd go this far? _She suddenly clutched Mrs. Burkiss's hand. "Are you all right?"

Mrs. Burkiss couldn't help feeling touched by Jeannie's obvious concern. It wasn't every day people cared if she was all right, especially in a circumstance like this. "I'm fine, kid. Our friend here's been real hospitable. Made up this fine bed for you nice an' special." Her voice dripped with sarcasm as she glared at the figure in the corner.

"I don't like chatty women," the dark voice said almost mechanically.

Jeannie perched up on her elbows, straining to better see her kidnapper. She noticed he sat in front of a window with shades drawn, a cigar smoking in the ashtray beside him. "Please," she said, trying to keep her voice from quivering. "Please, don't do this. I know you don't _want _to do this. Just let me and my friend go. We're not going to press charges."

"That is completely up to your husband, Mrs. Kerr," he said without looking up, turning to the sports section.

"Jack," Jeannie whispered. "This must be killing him. I know he'll do it. I know he will." She looked again to the shadowy figure, her face pleading. "At least tell me if Jack is safe! Tell me you're not making him do anything too dangerous!"

The man simply coughed. The cigar was a little too strong.

"_Please!"_

Mrs. Burkiss tried getting Jeannie to lie back down, but the girl was frozen in place by her determination and fear. "Shh, honey! I'm sure the lug head's fine! Just lie back down, and…_Jeannie?_" The sudden alarm in the old woman's voice caught the man's attention. He turned to the bed and then stood up quickly at the sight in front of him.

A pool of water spilled underneath Jeannie's shaking body.

Her face was numb with horror. "Funny…." She whispered faintly. "Just last week the doctor told me the water doesn't always break…."

* * *

Oliver Hammet paced the room as the hours slipped by, losing his famous cool by cussing perfunctorily. They were the only sounds besides Mrs. Burkiss's calming commands and Jeannie's occasional groans. _Shit. Shit. Goddamn. Must've been the commotion, the panic. Stupid bitch couldn't keep the damn baby in for a few damn hours. Shit._

Jeannie cried out.

Oliver whipped around, staring at her archly from the slits in his mask. "Shut up," he hissed. He'd made sure that this old office building was abandoned before staking it out, but that didn't rule out passers-by outside.

Mrs. Burkiss couldn't bother even glaring at him for his cruelty. The baby was coming out; she could feel its head in her slippery hands.

"Here it comes," she whispered to Jeannie. Both women were drenched in sweat as the bloody baby came out, tiny and horrified in its premature birth. It cried out.

The phone rang.

"Shit," Hammet said again, and answered. "Yeah?"

Mrs. Burkiss cut the umbilical chord, rinsing the baby with the water bottle she was able to wrangle from Hammet when the contractions started. Jeannie tried sitting up on her elbows. "Let me…let me see him…."

Mrs. Burkiss smirked, cocking her head. "Not him. Her."

Jeannie smiled through cracked lips. "Heh. I guess he won't be too disappointed." Even though her hair was slick with sweat and her features careworn from going through birth without any anesthesia, Jeannie looked positively beautiful when she accepted her daughter in her arms. "She's so small."

"Just a little premature. From that racket she's makin', you can tell she'll be fine."

Jeannie nodded, transfixed by her baby's face. The child looked up with warm curiosity into her mother's face, and stopped wailing. Her big blue eyes regarded Jeannie with growing contentment and not a little wonder. Jeannie laughed, big tears running down her cheeks. She squeezed her child to her, rocking back and forth. "Jackie," she whispered as she cradled the baby's head to her cheek. She kissed her. "Your name is Jackie."

"Oh, brother, not another one," Mrs. Burkiss said lightly.

Jeannie laughed again, feeling like exploding with joy. She looked at one of her hands and burst out into another sort of laughter. "Oh, good Lord! Look what I'm still wearing!"

Burkiss laughed, too: the catcher's mitt. The women laughed together as Hammet was wrapped up in his phone call.

"How long ago? Uh-huh…yeah, she'll be there…he's gonna have a helluva surprise when he gets home. No, I can't tell ya now. Yeah. Later." He hung up the phone precisely at the same moment Jackie started wailing again.

Shit.

"Shut that thing up," he barked.

Jeannie stared him down, her eyes dark blue slits, wrapping her arms tightly around her child. "She can't help it, you dumbshit. She's just been born." The hostility emanating from Hammet's approaching form only made Jackie cry harder.

Hammet couldn't afford this. Not now. Not when everything was just about wrapped up. "Shut. It. Up," He ordered. Mrs. Burkiss shivered at the frightening light in his eyes. She tugged on Jeannie's arm.

"Look, Jeannie, I think you should try making her be quiet a little."

Shooting Hammet a final nasty glare, Jeannie acquiesced and bounced her girl up and down lightly. "Shh…shh…."

Yet the small Jackie could still sense that looming presence. She cried harder.

A shadow fell over the mother and daughter as Hammet stood in front of the cot, his fists clenched. In an eerily quiet voice, he asked, "Are you going to shut her up, or will I have to?"

Jeannie froze. She raised her head up slowly, regarding him with wide eyes. They stared at each other for one silent second.

Then Jackie wailed again.

Shit.

With his signature dexterity, Hammet swiftly pushed away the weakened Jeannie and pulled the child out of her arms.

"**NO!"** Jeannie yelled, lunging. Her cry was louder than any of Jackie's sobs.

In reaction to it, Hammet punched her. Hard.

She fell back on to the cot.

The child was still crying. Mrs. Burkiss was able to pull her out of Hammet's arms as his grip weakened after striking the young mother.

"God, you sick monster!" Mrs. Burkiss spat out, clutching Jackie closely. "Ya didn't have to hit so hard! You okay, Jeannie?" She shook the woman's shoulder.

Nothing.

"Jeannie?"

Jeannie lay still on the cot, her head hanging over the side.

Even Jackie quieted.

Hesitantly, Hammet bent over and pressed his fingers against her throat, looking for a pulse.

_SHIT._

"Oh my God…." Mrs. Burkiss keened as Hammet's eyes told her the truth. "Oh my God…." She pulled Jackie closer to her as the tears came.

Since adulthood, after marrying her late, abusive husband, Mrs. Burkiss never cried. Only kids and pretty young helpless girls could afford tears. Tears meant nothing to nobody. Her husband hadn't cared. None of the tenants would have cared. So, she'd just never cried since her husband's fist first made contact with her jaw over fifteen years ago.

Now the tears came back. With one free hand, she reached helplessly for Jeannie's damp hair. "Oh, God…." Her sobs and Jackie's reverberated against Hammet's growing headache.

_Oh God oh Shit what the hell do I do oh Jesus she's dead SHUT THAT DAMN NOISE UP_

Shaking with panic, Hammet pulled out his gun and shot it once at Burkiss. The old lady cried out as she fell to the ground, the child still cradled in her arms.

Hammet's breath came out in heavy huffs. He looked at his watch. Shit. He didn't have time to mess with the old lady now. He needed to get Jeannie back…and figure out how to make her death seem plausible. An accident, maybe. Yeah. An explosion would take care of an autopsy or anything like that. That crummy boiler in the apartment….

He looked down at the unconscious old lady, whose shoulder wound was pouring out blood. She looked pretty helpless. He could leave her here and she and the kid would probably be dead by the time he got back. _Yeah. Easy. Just don't panic, Oliver._

Without a word, he picked Jeannie up in his arms and left the room.

The catcher's mitt slipped from her hand and landed on top of Mrs. Burkiss's still breathing body.

Three hours later, he returned. He'd had to do quite a song and dance: changing into his uniform in the alley, then running to greet his fellow cops as the fire raged in the apartment above. He was exhausted and more than a little shaken at all the mistakes he had made. He'd have to deal with Sal or the Kerr twerps in the morning, berating him for killing the broad when the deal had gone through.

As for John Kerr, he didn't give him a serious thought. From what he'd heard, the guy was all wet, a loser despite his infamous temper. A failed stand-up comic floundering to make ends meet. Hell, Hammet probably did him a favor by taking away those two extra burdens.

He opened the door, running through his mind all the possible places he could bury the old lady and the baby.

He looked at where they had fallen. All that remained was a pool of blood from Burkiss's wound.

Mrs. Burkiss and Jackie were gone. So was the catcher's mitt, only Hammet had never even noticed it to begin with.

* * *

Mrs. Burkiss leaned against the corner of the building opposite the North Gotham Orphanage, her weakened body hidden in shadow. Blood was rapidly leaving her, despite how she'd tried clotting it with a bit of cloth ripped from the cot's sheets. She swayed on her feet.

But no matter how weak she was she had to wait and make sure those doors opened.  
They did, finally. A nun stood over the crying baby, who lay in the basket Mrs. Burkiss had stolen. The woman's hand flew to her mouth. She bent down to inspect this strange parcel. The child's head was supported by a catcher's mitt. A soiled slip of paper with flecks of blood on it peeked out from behind her head. In a shaky, almost unintelligible hand, one word was written:

"Jackie."

Looking around mystified, the nun lifted the basket into her arms and stared at it for a moment. Giving the darkness one last look, she took the bundle inside, closing the door behind her.

Mrs. Burkiss closed her eyes. She wanted, oh how she had wanted to keep her. But not with that maniac on her heels. And not while…not while….

Not while the blood was leaving her and she was dying.

When Hammet finally tracked her down, she had just passed away in the charity hospital that had found her passed out in the street, no identification on her.

Hammet considered going after the baby, but why bother? She was probably at that orphanage, and no news was good news. The old lady had probably dropped her off without a word, and the kid certainly wouldn't talk.

That night, Hammet enjoyed a long, hot shower and dreamt of warm coffee waiting for him in the morning.

* * *

**As always, I loves me some reviews, so don't be shy! I guess I should mention that along with "The Killing Joke" and the "Hush" series, I'm also probably heavily influenced by elements from "Sweeney Todd" and even the sixties Vampire soap opera "Dark Shadows" (the way Jackie is deposited on the orphanage steps with just her first name is very similar to Victoria Winters's beginnings.) Oh, and I didn't mean to paint foster homes as terrible, loveless places; I know that many families are very hospitable and truly love the children they adopt. I just gave poor Jeannie a couple of bad experiences, since everyone knows Gotham's not always the nicest city in the world-plus, I wanted to make it clear that there was no other family for Mrs. Burkiss to take Jackie to. Anyways, lemme know how you like! I'll try updating as soon as I can! Thanks to those wonderful few who've reviewed already!**


	9. Chapter 9

**Warning: slightly grotesque and graphic description of a Joker victim. But don't worry: I don't dwell on it, for those of you not into the whole gore thang. **

* * *

_Where was the Joker?_

Bruce lost track of how many times he had asked himself that question over the past three months.

He sat in the Batcave, sans vigilante cowl and cape, staring with burning eyes into the computer screens before him. His refuge was plunged in darkness save these bright screens, Joker's recent absence from the public eye having reduced activity in the cave by a sizable amount.

Bruce reclined in his chair, staring at the first screen: a mug shot of the Joker, the mad clown winking into the camera as he jauntily held his identification card askew. His one open eye glowed with sadistic insanity.

The second screen: a Senior picture of John Kerr in a North Gotham High yearbook. He also winked into the camera, cheeky and mocking. But his slicked back auburn hair and average coloring lent the long, angular face normality. There was no malice in the open eye and wide smile.

The third screen: another yearbook picture, this one of a Junior, Jeannie Brown. Her smile was much shyer and tentative than Kerr's, her eyes kinder and softer. Yet the upward tilt of her mouth and the alert gleam in her heavy-lidded eyes revealed a certain degree of self-deprecation. She, like Kerr, refused to take the camera seriously.

The fourth screen: yet another yearbook picture, this time of John and Jeannie sitting together on the high school's front steps. The young girl no longer displayed any shyness, staring straight into the lens with frank glee. She was wrapped in John's casual but protective arms. They were both laughing uproariously. Her eyes squinted merrily at the camera, and the smile here was much wider and unrestrained than in the previous picture. John's eyes squeezed shut as he laughed, his nose buried in his girlfriend's mane of fair hair. On her finger gleamed an engagement ring.

The fifth screen: Jackie, in a picture from her boarding school. The girl's severe black-and-white uniform failed to stifle her easy grin and spirited eyes.

Not for the first time, Bruce felt a shiver run up his spine. He stared at the pictures of the two girls, Jeannie and Jackie, side by side on the monitors.

It was almost impossible to tell the difference between them. That Jackie was Jeannie's daughter would shock no one; hell, Bruce wouldn't have been surprised if he'd found out they were twins.

Having stared too long at this strange family tree, Bruce rubbed his suddenly stinging eyes, holding his face in his hands.

His head hummed.

_The Joker doesn't love anyone but himself, _he'd once said. And he still believed that. He doubted Jack Napier had, either. But John Kerr…?

Bruce peeked out once more from behind his cupped hands, studying again the photo of John and Jeannie. The boy's face was flushed with contentment, his arms secure around the laughing girl.

Yes, John Kerr had obviously once loved someone other than himself. Loved her and then lost her. But what else had he lost in the process?

Bruce stared at the picture of the Joker. His frown deepened.

He hated thinking about the Joker in these terms.

Bruce thought back to three months ago. The crime scene had been an ugly sight, even for Gordon's strong stomach and Batman's steely resolve. "My God," Gordon said when Batman arrived. "Do you really think this was the work of the Joker? Even _he…._" His words trailed off as he stared at the two corpses splayed before him on the floor.

Batman stared as well.

Oliver Hammet's office was a disaster area, files strewn about and cabinets overturned. The group of cops self-consciously picked at the debris, some half-heartedly jotting down notes and taking hesitant pictures. They'd rather focus on the mess than the hideous broken bodies before them.

The girl wasn't as bad, a snapped neck having killed her instantly.

Hammet, however….

Batman studied him closely, after taking a deep, claming breath. "Yes, Jim," he said finally. "This is definitely his doing. Authentic Joker toxin."

Gordon shook his head, unbelieving. "Yes, but I've never seen one of his toxins work on a victim like _that _before."

Batman grimaced beneath his cowl, agreeing. Hammet's horrible smile was so wide that veins popped beneath his skin, the flesh even torn in some areas by the inhumanly tight muscles. Shaking his head, Batman said, "Joker must have used the _entire supply _he had with him." His eyes narrowed. "But _why? _And the girl…Joker's not above much, but even he doesn't go out of his way to kill a woman, not unless for a specific purpose."

"What do you think?" Gordon asked. "Is he trying especially hard to bait you after the Phantasm incident?"

Enough time had passed since those events that Batman no longer winced at allusions to Andrea. He looked around again and shook his head. "No," he said decisively. "No, if that were the case, he would have provided me with some clue, or some 'joke' to set me on his trail. There's nothing particularly clever here, or even amusing, to his twisted way of thinking. No…I think this was spur of the moment…out of _panic." _The last word came out reluctantly, as if even Batman couldn't believe it.

Gordon echoed his mystification. "Panic? The _Joker? _About Hammet, a small-time PI? What for?" Gordon rubbed his neck, a look of regret momentarily crossing his face. "Poor Oliver…he was the most crooked cop I ever met, but still, what an ugly way to die. I can't help but feel…." He sighed. "Well, not responsible, but if I had it to do over again, maybe I could've found him another position, something out of the way…nah, that wouldn't have been ethical. He had to leave the force. His hand was too deep in too many pockets." He shrugged away his reflections. "Well, what's next, Batman? Montoya can take care of the bodies, and I can file the report, but what do we do about Joker?"

Batman stood from where he kneeled by the bodies, his dark form looming over the crime scene. "Now I do what the Joker did after killing them: I look at the files."

It took digging, a lot of digging. But gradually, as if putting together an elusive, morbid jigsaw puzzle, pieces began to fit together.

Frighteningly so.

First there was the connection to the Kerr twins, who at that time were the only surviving members of an old Gotham family gang, from before Batman's time as a vigilante.

Next was Hammet's connection to Sal Valestra. Batman initially assumed this was where Hammet's involvement with the Joker began.

But then Batman stumbled upon the connection to the bust at Gotham Chemical. This wasn't the same incident Batman had been involved in, the run-in that had unwittingly created the Joker. This break-in happened long before Batman's career as the Dark Knight. According to Hammet's eighteen-year old notes, the Kerr twins were in charge of this particular venture.

But both brothers also died that day, found murdered in front of an apartment complex.

An apartment complex that had caught on fire.

Trapping one woman inside, a lone pregnant woman: Jeannie Brown Kerr.

Her husband had also disappeared that day, never to be heard from again.

Something was very off about this. A man disappears after his young wife and unborn child are killed in a household accident, and his brothers murdered just outside? And according to this information, John Kerr was once an employee at Gotham Chemical…

Batman dug up all he could on the youngest Kerr son. Found his yearbook. And seeing that young face wink at him felt like someone throwing an anvil into his stomach.

Oh, God….

Of all the files strewn about Hammet's office, only one was missing. As everything was organized chronologically in that sterile office, Batman could trace its absence to what he now knew were Jeannie and the twins' murders.

He followed Hammet's actions on that violent day long ago, from the bits and pieces garnered from other files and old business associates.

And thus he discovered the subject of the missing file: Jackie North, eighteen year old genius from North Gotham Orphanage, smiling her mother's smile and thinking with her father's intelligence.

Oh, God….

Bruce wasted no time in hiring her as a live-in tutor. He had to act fast before the Joker got a hold of her. He didn't have time to think about this suddenly humanized aspect of his greatest enemy. He didn't have time to contemplate that this pretty, strikingly intelligent, kind young woman was the progeny of the Clown Prince of Crime.

No, it was easier to think of Jackie, when Bruce had to think of her, as _Jeannie's_ daughter. Bruce could tell that Jeannie had been the factor keeping John sane-or was it John, or Jack, or Joker, or all three of them, fighting for power over that struggling comedian's soul? Either way, the sanity was Jeannie, a smiling face with a soft joke on her lips.

So much like Jackie.

Bruce shut off the computer monitors, standing stiffly. Reflection was futile at this point. Vigilance was needed.

Gotham turned a hazy blue in the early evening. As Bruce walked through the labyrinth leading into his master bedroom, he allowed himself no feeling for the clown: no sympathy, no understanding, not even his usual bitterness. None of these emotions would serve Batman well now.

Bruce sat at his desk, taking off his jacket and wrapping his robe around his lounging suit. He sat down and scanned the evening paper for mention of the Joker, as he'd done obsessively since Jackie first stepped into the Wayne mansion….

A soft knock interrupted his inspection.

"Come in," he called, folding the paper.

Jackie kicked open the door, one hand holding coffee and the other holding a plate of pizza rolls. "Howdy," she said, humming "The Simpsons" theme song.

Bruce sucked in a breath. He'd hired her, protected her, and lived with her for three months, but still had no idea how to react to her. Her pleasant looks and easy ways were calming, of course; he couldn't deny that. But he couldn't shake the wariness he felt around her. Maybe he was trying too hard to find her father in her, despite his common sense dictating how unfair that was to the young girl.

So far, the only similarities he'd found between father and daughter were the intelligence and faint smattering of freckles, freckles he had seen with admittedly more prominence on John Kerr's tan face. And the chin was maybe a little more pointed than Jeannie's….

He cleared his throat. "Thank you, Jackie," he said as she placed the snack on the table in front of him. "But I think this is Alfred's forte."

She shrugged. "Eh. I figured I oughta suck up if I'm going to ask you for a favor."

Bruce cocked an eyebrow. "Oh? What kind of favor?"

Jackie leaned nonchalantly against his wall, her arms crossed, a lazy smile on her face. Bruce noticed that Jackie was the one person in the house who treated him just as she would any of her close pals-as if he _wasn't_ her distant, brooding, billionaire patron. "Babs's dad is forcing her to go to some "dance for donors" thing tonight. Since breaking up with Dick, she doesn't have a date, and she doesn't want to go stag. So, I told her I'd tag along. Is that okay? Barbara _promises _to keep me out of trouble. No drunken table dancing, she assures you."

Her eyes squinted in amusement (just like Jeannie in the yearbook picture); sure that Barbara's message was meant as a joke.

But Bruce knew that Barbara was serious. She'd look out for her.

"So can you spare me for tonight? I've just left Tim, and he looks pretty engrossed in his homework. It's an essay about bank robberies from the 1920s, so I guarantee you it'll hold his interest."

Bruce smothered a relenting sigh. He couldn't lock her in, after all. And Barbara was more than capable of protecting her.

He sipped his coffee, staring at the newspaper in front of him. Still no mention of the Joker. "All right," he said, his voice even and steady as always. "Give the Commissioner my regards."

Jackie tilted her head, studying him. "Wanna come along? Alfred can look after Tim."

He didn't turn around, keeping his broad back to her. "Social situations…are not my cup of tea. I support fundraising, but I try to avoid dances whenever I can. Besides…" his voice darkened slightly, as she noticed it often did around nighttime. "I have other things to attend to tonight."

She nodded briefly, before she realized he couldn't see her. She'd heard that line from him a lot. "All righty, then. Guess…um…guess I'll be off!" She awkwardly turned around and closed the door softly behind her, as if any sound would shake his mountain-like state of equilibrium. He couldn't help chuckling wryly as he heard her whistle in disbelief outside.

He knew he was an unsettling person, and found it strangely comforting having someone around who called him out on it, even someone with Jackie's gentle subtlety. He again rubbed his eyes wearily as he came to realize just how integral the Joker's daughter had become in Bruce Wayne's household….

But where _was_ the Joker?

* * *

"Me_ow!" _Barbara grinned as she stepped out of her father's limo, rolling her eyes at Jackie's catcall from the Wayne's expansive doorway. "This chick's got two sticks that go on forever, know what I'm sayin'?"

"Oh, shut up," Barbara said as she smoothed her short black cocktail dress. The color went surprisingly well with her glossy copper hair set in a French twist, and her confident strides increased her air of elegant dignity. This dignity was only vaguely offset by the giggle she bit back as Jackie started singing an alternate version of "Shaft."

"Who's the redhead that won't wear no thrift store dress when there's danger all about? BABS! Right on! They say this cat Babs is a bad mother"—

"Shut your mouth!" Barbara jumped in.

"Gee whiz, I'm just talking about Babs."

"You're such a dork." Barbara gasped softly as Jackie twirled around in the dim light of the veranda, the girl unapologetically fishing for compliments. "But you look like an angel, you really do."

"Oh, stop! You're fresh." She looked just as stunning as Barbara, but in an entirely different way. Whereas Barbara had aimed for sharp sophistication, Jackie's look was softer, airier. Her light yellow summer dress matched the natural highlights in her sandy hair, which, unlike Barbara's, hung in loose waves down her shoulders. A long, veil-like ribbon pulled her bangs back from her face.

Jackie's jaunty movements—she was almost skipping-also differed from Barbara's strong but feminine strides down the Wayne's walkway. Jackie unabashedly linked arms with her companion, and the two quickly dissolved into giggles as Jackie began relating an anecdote. Apparently, Alfred liked singing Gilbert & Sullivan while sorting the laundry, as Jackie found out earlier today when she walked in on him folding Bruce's boxer shorts….

…So engrossed were the two friends that even Batgirl, ever alert within Barbara, failed to notice the black car across the street. In the back sat a man whose face was shaded by his dark fedora, his wide eyes staring and staring and staring

He saw the vision walk toward the limousine, the moonlight turning her yellow dress white

Soft and airy white dress smiling girl throwing her head back as she laughed beautiful white dress

_"What do you think?" Jeannie asked with uncharacteristic awkwardness outside town hall. "It's nothing much, but I thought it was better than wearing a jogging suit or something." Her smile was self-mocking and shy. "But it's not much of a wedding dress, is it?"_

_Jack drank in the sight of his lovely bride, Jeannie standing on tiptoe in front of him in her simple, b-e-autiful white dress. He ran his fingers through her silky hair. "Babe, you're…you're…." He kissed her forehead. "You're mine. You're my girl."_

_Her eyes melted into his. "What a sap," she said gently._

_He caressed her cheek. "Let's go in."_

He clenched his gloved hand.

Then an explosion of malicious glee.

The driver, feeling conspicuous enough in clown makeup and chauffeur get-up, jumped as his boss broke out in loud laughter. "Ha ha haaaa! Oh, driver? Let's follow these lovely ladies, shall we? _It's party time!"_

The man revved up his engine as the clown's laughter grew more and more ominous.

* * *

**Dun-dun-dunnnn! Or something. Sorry if you thought this chapter was a little short on action, but paaaatience, my pets. I just need to…um…figure out what's going to happen next. Heh heh. Feel free to use the reviews as a suggestion box! I think I know how I want this to end; it's just that whole 'getting there' process that's being a little bitch. Oh, and I got Jeannie's maiden name Brown from Rebecca Brown, Joker's squeeze from "Going Sane." What can I say, I love opposites attract couples, so I enjoy the idea of pairing Joker with sane girls. But don't worry, I know Joker's at his best (or worst?) when's he's all evil and crazy and doo-dah. Anyways, hope you enjoyed this chapter, and stay tuned for more updates once my writer's block goes bye-bye. **


	10. Chapter 10

_Come on, Jackie, be a good sport, _the bored girl chanted inwardly after an hour or so mingling with the various families and politicians that made up Gotham's social elite.

The "party" was…well, not so much a party as it was a cavalcade of stuffed shirts schmoozing together in perfect snooty harmony. And this wasn't Alfred's charming, British brand of snootiness, either. More of that spoiled, vapid, "yes, charity, hors d'oeuvres, mmyah, yachts," sorta snootiness.

Blech.

Still, at least the waiters didn't even consider carding her—she was with the Commissioner's _daughter, _after all! So she could sip at champagne as much as she liked, while pretend-flirting with a few of the bone-headed, trust fund suitors that Mr. Gordon was half-heartedly trying to interest his daughter and her friend in.

Barbara was obviously still too hung-up on Dick, not even faking that much interest in what her dance partner was talking about. Jackie, however, was taking great satisfaction in shocking her drone by telling him about the last party she went to, the one in downtown Gotham when she and her chums crashed a frat house and ended up playing a less-than-totally-innocent version of pin the tail on the… "Well, _you know," _she said coyly, demurely batting her lashes.

She felt a little too mean as the poor clod blushed and looked away.

Yeesh, when was this evening ever going to get any fun?

The loud _**BLAM!**_ that shook the hall as a car drove through the wall at least looked to liven things up a tad.

As the crowd screamed and dispersed to different corners of the dance floor, two burly hyenas leaped out of the limo's cracked windows, followed by an equally burly chauffeur in clown makeup. The man toted a machine gun, his face stern for all the red paint that covered his mouth. Flanked by the growling animals, the man pointed the gun at the cowering crowd.

"Egad!" Mayor Hill yelled from where he cringed behind a table of refreshments. He, and others scattered throughout the hall, stared with wide eyes at the figure that stepped out of the rubble-laden car.

The Joker stood front and center of the now dust covered floor. He stuck his thumbs jauntily into his belt hoops; grinning pleasantly at the chaotic mess the town hall's ballroom had turned into in the few short seconds after his arrival.

Jackie was sure she saw smug pride in his eyes as he happily surveyed the mess. She certainly didn't feel proud of herself as her heart pounded in loud, cowardly thumps inside her chest.

Finally the Joker let loose with his trademark guffaws, throwing his arms out. "Talk about a party-crasher!" He declared to his quaking audience. "Ah ha ha ha ha ha!!" His eyes squeezed shut as laughter shook his jubilant frame.

"What do you want, Joker?" Gordon spat out. Jackie jumped, just now realizing the Commissioner was standing in front of her. His back served as a man-made wall between her and the clown, Gordon no doubt protecting her and Barb—

Jackie gasped.

Barbara?

Jackie's eyes darted around the room frantically. _Shit! Where the hell's Barbara?_

In reply to Gordon's question, Joker's face tilted and his eyes narrowed in on the girl peeking out from behind the Commissioner's shoulder. A vague thumping stirred in his own chest, but once again his mad instincts smothered it. A strangely serene smile stretched his mouth. "What do I want, Gordo? What you've got, of course! What any dad has a right to! A loving, lovely daughter by his side!" He stepped nearer to Gordon and Jackie, his smile growing more and more sinister, his hand outstretched to…

Jackie frowned, perplexed. Who _was_ he reaching out to? She glanced behind her. The only thing there was a potted plant. Jeez, the guy must be _really_ nuts if he thinks a _plant_ is his….

Swallowing a wholly inappropriate giggle at the thought, Jackie turned back to the scene in progress—only to find Joker reaching his hand across Gordon's shoulder to _her_. His searing eyes burned through the teenager, those eyes revealing nothing but ecstatic, brutal insanity.

"Hellloooo, Princess!" He crooned in an exaggerated high-pitched voice. "'Fraid play-time's over! Daddy's got some big plans for you, so grab your sleeping bag and teddy bear, and let's get a move-on!"

Jackie's face turned blank and pale. The room's occupants gasped and whispered amongst themselves. Even Gordon was momentarily discomfited. He shifted a little, giving Joker a better view of his daughter.

They stared into each other's eyes.

His were narrow and the pupils were unfathomably black pinpoints, reminding her of a scavenger bird's. They burned.

Hers were wide and candid, the same exact shade as—

They were

And they were looking at him with…with that kind of look that….

Tears welled up in her ocean blue eyes as she saw in those burning scavenger bird eyes that gleam that told her the truth

His breathing heavy as he saw that truth reflected in her eyes and not turn into anger or disgust but tears and a surprised understanding brewing

Her—_her--_blue eyes stared and would not look away

ENOUGH.

Hysterical laughter swelled in Joker's brain and took him over once again. Gritting his teeth, smothering his excited giggles, the clown seized her roughly by the wrist. She cried out in pain and shock.

Ignoring Gordon's protests, he yanked the girl out of the Commissioner's fumbling grasp. Chuckling drunkenly, Joker dragged the shell-shocked girl across the floor. She suddenly snapped out of her stupor, struggling with all the efforts of a crazed, caged animal against his grip. But he was so lost in whatever fog it was that made him laugh and mutter to himself that his monster-tight hold never once faltered.

Until a tough, female voice asked, "Leaving so soon?"

Joker and Jackie had only enough time to look up as Batgirl swooped down, her foot crashing against Joker's jaw.

Taking advantage of the Joker's dazed stumbling, Jackie tore herself free of his grasp. Dodging the machine gun bullets the chauffeur sprayed at Batgirl, who was busy in a punching match with the Clown Prince, Jackie sped back to the corner of the room where the Commissioner waited for her. Gordon pushed her against the wall, then pinned her there with his back. Speaking over his shoulder, he whispered hurriedly, "Over to your left is a back exit. Take it. For whatever reason, he wants you. Go. The police copters are already outside, you'll be safe. Get the Batman."

Jackie flinched as the chauffeur sprayed another volley of bullets into the air, the hyenas' barks and yelps growing louder and more intense. "What--what about Barbara? I can't see her anywhere!"

Gordon stared ruefully at Batgirl and the clown, both now using chairs to try and knock each other down. Through her panic, Jackie thought she heard sadness in the older man's voice as he said, "Don't worry, she's here. She can take care of herself." Turning sharply to Jackie, he hissed, "Now _go!"_

Out of the corner of his eye, before Batgirl dealt him the final blow to his temple, Joker watched his daughter escape him. She only looked back once, fear and amazement in her bottomless blue eyes. Then she was gone.

Batgirl's foot crashed into his temple and blackness momentarily took over.


	11. Chapter 11

Jackie sat frozen on her bed. Her knuckles went white as she tightly gripped her knees, her eyes staring blankly at her door.

She felt as numb as her gaze.

The whole evening ran through her mind like a surreal blur—

Running from town hall, into the pandemonium of blazing red lights, screeching sirens, and deafening propellers, as police cars and helicopters surrounded the establishment.

Reporters and cops swelled around Jackie, pushing past her.

Events rushed together: Montoya shaking her by the arms, asking clipped questions, staring her down. Police and firemen rushing past Montoya's staccato demands, into the building behind them. A voice speaking from the radio in Montoya's pocket: Joker had regained consciousness, kicking Batgirl in the back while the crusader tried fighting off his henchman. The clown slipped away while Batgirl regained her breath.

A shadow cast over the two women. Batman.

His gloved hand resting on Jackie's bare shoulder, reminding her how chilly the Gotham night air was.

"Go home, Miss North. But not for long. You're not safe here anymore."

And he was gone.

Riding in the back of a police car, Montoya's jacket wrapped around her shoulders. Coming home. Alfred's deliberately blank face. He knew. But how could he know so soon?

Blinking away that seemingly irrelevant question. Shivering in the kitchen as Alfred fixed her some cocoa: pampering her, as Orphan Jackie-Annie had never been pampered in her childhood.

Hours slipping by as Alfred thankfully asked no pointed questions, merely murmuring softly about her health. Bruce Wayne coming in at last—Jackie blinking again, understanding it was time to focus. She wondered vaguely where he'd been since she'd come home.

He sat down, his crystal eyes—distant eyes sort of like pictures she'd seen of hard-bitten wolves in Alaska, remote and inscrutable—staring into hers. He said:

"Jackie, I've…spoken with Batman. He's done some investigating. The Joker was born John Kerr, the youngest son of Walter Kerr, a one-time mob leader. Joker didn't follow immediately in his father's footsteps, instead marrying his classmate Jeannie Brown when he graduated high school. He tried to become a comedian, but he wasn't making ends meet. When his wife was six months pregnant, she was kidnapped to make him cooperate with his brothers in a heist. A corrupt policeman ended up killing her, trying to keep her quiet—you see, while in hide-out, she had given birth. To you."

Jackie's hitch in breathing was the only audible sound in the kitchen.

"But Joker never knew of your existence…until recently. Your parents' landlady was kidnapped as well, but escaped with you. She left you at the orphanage before she…before she too died. Your father thought you died with your mother. With nothing left to live for, he gradually became the man you saw today. I'm sorry."

His eyes were so distant.

"You must know this has nothing do with you."

And his voice. His voice sounded so far away.

"What…what's happened to your father is no reflection on you, on Jackie North. You are your own woman and you can't let him drag you down with him."

"Drag me down?" She asked in a quiet voice, her face pale and doll-like.

A muscle in Bruce's jaw twitched. "Batman tried pursuing Joker after he escaped tonight, but lost his trail. Jackie," he firmly took her hand. "Jackie, you're not safe here anymore."

_Not safe here anymore._

"The Joker knows where you live, and I'm sorry to say I doubt he has any good plans for you. It's best if you leave. Tonight."

_Learned of one family I lost. Losing the family I already know._

Bruce turned away from Jackie's expressionless face and deep eyes, where one tear shone like a tiny monocle. "Pack your things. Leave out the back stairway. Once you're ready Nightwing will escort you to the Gotham airport. You have to start over, Jackie, and I'll support you until you can make your own way. But I'm sorry. I've failed…I…I'm sorry I couldn't protect you better. Protect you from him."

His words sank into Jackie's brain slowly. When their meaning became clear, her brow only creased. "How _could_ you have known?"

Running an agitated hand through his hair, Bruce stood. "Goodbye, Jackie." He turned briskly and headed out the door.

Once he left, Alfred helped her to her feet. "You must hurry, my dear. I have no doubt the Joker will come here soon, and you mustn't be here when he does." Jackie had been so still and silent throughout that Alfred gasped at her sudden animation, as she whipped around and buried her face in his shoulder. Her arms were tight and warm around his neck. "I love you. I love you," came the husky words, muffled in the crook of his neck.

Without looking at him again, Jackie left the kitchen and trudged upstairs. Alfred's lapel was damp from where her cheek had rested.

Jackie entered her bedroom with the initial aim of following Bruce's instructions: she'd pack her things, sneak into Tim's bedroom, and kiss him goodbye. Then she'd be gone.

She wouldn't think about her past. About her origins. Mr. Wayne was right: she wasn't Joker's daughter. She was Jackie North now.

But when she stood at the foot of her bed she couldn't do it.

She just couldn't do it.

Her belongings remained untouched, and she didn't part with Tim.

She sat down.

Something hard and immovable inside her forced her to stay. Something she had ignored throughout her life, something vital to ignore if she wanted to rise above her helpless orphan status: desire. Jackie had always played the laid-back optimist, and that truly was a part of her character. But sometimes….

Sometimes she had wanted to know so badly it threatened to crush her.

And she'd know. Tonight. Come hell or high water.

Because Bruce Wayne _wasn't _right. She _was _the Joker's daughter. Oh, God, she was the Joker's daughter….

But hey: she was also the daughter of John and Jeannie Kerr. And who were they?

And so Jackie sat down and stared ahead, waiting. Waiting for her father.

* * *

Well, drat, drat, drat!

What a pain in the ol' arse that little Bat chicky was! Joker swore Batman must stash away a little assistant in every nook and cranny in Gotham. What a nuisance! Made killing innocent citizens and wreaking havoc just that much more difficult. Gosh, sometimes Joker felt like Batman didn't want him to have any fun at all.

Still, at least Joker was able to purloin this vehicle from that granny. Humph, old lady shouldn't have been driving anyhow. Besides, she might not be _dead. _Maybe just a little scratched up from getting shoved out of her car while it was still moving. Heh! Whoopsies!

As Joker parked quietly on one of the remote corners of the Wayne estate, he inwardly fumed at Batgirl and her boss. It's bad enough when they butt in during every-day heists, but this had been a special occasion, by gum!

He had plans for his precious little dumpling. Precious little daughter. Fiery mayhem filled his chest all the way up to his temples. It beat hard. Hee hee hee. So much fun…he was going to turn the pretty little tutor into one of his own. Hee. Won't Batman be pissy about _that_? Joker's precious little thing, his daughter girl.

Soooo much fun!

Let's see….

Joker looked up at the second story. Her bedroom should be second right. There's a back staircase, too. Oh, goody!

He had to cover his mouth. His giggles were becoming so unruly.

A locked door. Meh. Smashy, smashy! Oh, wait. That'd cause a lot of noise. Hm. Crowbar it is! Joker made a mental note to pat himself on the back later on for how smoothly he broke into the mansion, the only noise being a brief "pop" as the crow bar pushed the lock out.

The fire continued dancing in his head as he bounded upstairs. It kept him from seeing those eyes again. Beautiful fire.

He twisted the knob. In a rush of euphoria, he sang out, "Heeeeeeeere's Daddy!" He swung the door wide open.

And there she was. Sitting quietly. Hands folded in her lap, knees together. Her face very pale but composed.

Father and daughter both noted in a detached way that sometimes those annoying clichés were right, and at crucial moments time _does _stand still.

He noticed she looked like a warm doll.

She noticed he still wouldn't look completely at her eyes.

After a time, she finally spoke, wetting her pale lips.

"Hey," she said in a soft but frank voice.

_Soft and frank no bull shit don't worry job or no job_

STOP. This was fun time, remember? Heee, fun time! Fun time! He returned to the mad present.

"Hey yourself," he crooned, thumbs in belt loops again. "How d'ya do, little lady?"

His venomous chuckle undercut his folksy words.

"A little confused," she admitted.

"Awww," Joker said in mock sympathy. "There, there, kitten!" He plopped himself down beside her, wrapping a chummy arm around her shoulders. "It's very simple, really. I'm your pater!"

She nodded her head slowly.

"I know that," she said. "I know everything now."

"What a smart 'un!" He said, tussling her hair. "The ol' candied apple don't fall far!" He stood, reaching a hand out to her grandly. "Come along, m'dear! I've decided not to be _too_ upset with you for running out on me earlier tonight; I know you must be a very shy little pickle faced with such a gorgeous and talented father to live up to. Don't worry your pretty little head if you don't measure up to me right away!" His grin widened as his eyes narrowed. "You'll learn," he snickered darkly.

Jackie stood unsteadily, her face still blank.

"That's right, pet, don't make me force you!" Joker gestured for her to come nearer.

Instead she opened one of her drawers, fishing around for something.

Oh, this was very disappointing.

He clucked his tongue, crossing his arms. "Now, now. Don't go looking for a weapon. That'll make Daddy angry, and when Daddy's angry even pretty little daughters can find themselves in a very sticky predica"—

He stopped talking.

She took out a catcher's mitt.

She turned it over slowly, smirking ruefully. "Heh. You'll probably think I'm a sap holding onto this. And I am. I'm a huge sap. This and my name were all that were found on me when the orphanage took me in. When other kids had teddy bears or old family photos, I had this. You know what I'd do when I was little, and played little league softball? I'd take this to the ballpark, keeping an eye on the stands. I figured if whoever gave me this was there they'd recognize it. And me. In fact, I even used to take it with me on shopping trips with the other girls, and to amusement parks, too. Just in case I was recognized. Until the mother superior told me it was too immature, and made me keep it in my room. By that point, though, I'd kinda given up on hopes of being recognized." She suddenly looked up, staring at him unabashedly. "I'm so sorry. I thought…I thought you…whoever you were…I thought you didn't _care. _That me, and the catcher's mitt, that everything was just a big _joke _to you." Her composure snapped, leaving her. She started crying. Big clumsy sobs, almost but not quite hysterical: when you start choking and coughing on the tears, but the words still come out somehow. "I loved you and I thought you didn't _care. _I imagined you, I tried not to, but I did, and I imagined you seeing me holding the glove and…and…but each time I had to remember that this mitt was all I had, and that m-maybe you-you _laughed _at me!" She was keening now, shaking from pent-up emotion. But she still wouldn't turn away from him, even though she could barely make him out through her tears. "But I know now! I know you didn't know! And that you _tried! _That you _tried _to be sane once! For me. And for—for her! And because of that, I lo"—

He roared. Then he struck her. Hard.

Stunned, she fell to the ground, half unconscious.

He threw her over his shoulder and pushed away the panicking Alfred, who had heard the commotion and come running.

Bruce was just leaving the Bat Cave when he heard Joker's car screech away. By the time he burst into Jackie's room, his butler was sitting in the middle of the floor, practically in shock. He shook his head wearily, whispering, "What is he going to do to her?"


	12. Chapter 12

Tim's eyes snapped open to tires screeching on pavement, followed by a car speeding away.

He gasped groggily, bolting upright in bed. He took in his dark bedroom. The horizontal slits of light coming from the shades at his window anchored him back to reality.

Another boy might have simply turned over mumbling, disgruntled at such a rude start from his sleep.

This boy leaped out of bed and threw open his door, running down the long hall toward the Batcave.

He was halted in his progress by literally running headfirst into Bruce's back. Tim's patron was unsurprisingly headed in the same direction as he was.

"Oof!" The boy cried.

"Tim," Bruce said sternly, taking him by the shoulders. "What are you doing out of bed?"

Tim looked at him askance. "What do you mean? I heard a car rush off—and how many cars come that close to Wayne manor, and much less speed off in that way? What's going on?"

Bruce stared at him. "I…I can't explain."

"What!" Tim's eyes narrowed in indignation. "Since when? Last I checked, I'm the only Robin you got. So what can't you tell me?"

Bruce continued staring at the boy for a moment, and Tim was struck by the foreign look that came into his eyes: uncertainty. It faded quickly, replaced instead by Bruce's trademark expression of grim sobriety. He placed a hand on Tim's shoulder, and directed him toward the Batcave. "All right, Tim. I'll tell you." He inhaled. "It's about Jackie."

* * *

When Batgirl entered the cave, Batman and Nightwing were already in costume, deep in discussion by the lab. Robin was also there, but he sat apart from them on a stool by the Batmobile. Batgirl noted how sullen he looked.

She was NOT looking forward to this. _She _was the one who had failed her best friend, after all. All she had to do was keep the Joker away from Jackie, and she couldn't even do that without getting knocked out by the clown freak.

She squared her shoulders, refusing to indulge in self-loathing. _That'll help Jackie even less than the stupid stunts I've already pulled tonight._

She approached the duo, addressing Batman, who was hunched over a microscope. "What do you got?" She felt Nightwing's eyes on her, but refused to deal with whatever was in her ex-boyfriend's eyes right now, whether it be pity or blame.

Without looking up, Batman answered her. "A mineral or rock of some sort left behind from the Joker's tires when he tore out of here with Jackie. It might give us some indication where he intends on taking her."

"I thought he stole the car on the way here from town hall."

"True, but there was a scuffle. The old woman he stole the car from is recovering in the hospital, and she says she struggled with him enough that something off of Joker might have fallen onto the tires during the fight."

"She scored for abused grannies everywhere," Nightwing quipped.

Batgirl rolled her eyes, peering at the sample over Batman's shoulder. "Anything yet?"

"Yes," he exhaled slowly, sitting up. "Yes. It's…it's a sequin."

Batgirl frowned. "A sequin? Like on a gown? Seems like it might be a dead end, then. He could have gotten that off of anybody at the ball tonight."

Batman shook his head, scrutinizing the piece of evidence. "No, not one like this. This is too gauche and cheaply made for a shindig at town hall." He held the specimen up to the light, where the pasty glitter sparkled pink and crimson. "This is from a costume piece."

"A _costume _piece?" Nightwing questioned incredulously. "But that's…." he paused thoughtfully. "That's…actually totally not surprising, considering we're dealing with the Joker here. If there's one guy who's gonna go for the theatrical"—

"So, what do you think, then?" Batgirl asked, getting back on track. "Do you know where she is?"

Batman nodded slowly, especially after he determined that an element on the sequin was from salt water. "Yes. Yes, I know where she is now."

Batgirl and Nightwing almost jumped as Robin spoke, his silence having almost made them forget his presence. "Where? Where's he got her?" He jumped off his stool, and joined the team by the microscope.

"The costume warehouse near the waterfront."

* * *

Jackie's eyes snapped open to high-pitched cackling and shuffling of fabrics, some of which landed on her huddled form, where she lay in a half-delirious state on her side.

She remembered.

Gasping softly, she sat up tentatively, taking in her surroundings. She sat on a pile of costumes, including a ballerina tutu and feather boa, all placed on a concrete floor. She was in a warehouse of sorts, other garish costumes piled high, almost up to the ceiling.

Her father was buried in one such pile now, pulling various costumes out of their plastic wraps, giggling to himself. Apparently his murderous fury at her emotional appeal was replaced with childlike enthusiasm in whatever new task he was immersed in. "Nope, nope, maybe, nope nope, nosiree bub, nope!" He threw each rejected piece over his shoulder, and the soft "ack" Jackie muttered as a sultan's turban hat flew into her face alerted Joker to his daughter's now fully conscious state.

"Weeeeeeelll!" He smiled, turning to her. "Rise and shine, kiddo! Welcome to your new temporary home!" He stretched his arms out, indicating the chaotic warehouse. "And I do mean temporary. Call this a backstage visit before the big show." At this he dissolved into a fresh fit of laughter, burying his gleeful face into one of his hands.

Jackie sat stone still for a second. Her eyes swept over her surroundings once more. Then raising her eyebrows, she responded by letting out a perplexed whistle. "Quite a joint." Despite her efforts at an aloof cool, a hint of fear still sneaked into her quiet voice.

"Truth be told," Joker said, still rifling through outfits, "it's not the most original place I could've brought my wee one. I'm sure _Batman _will figure it out soon enough." Joker's words were laced with careless disgust. "But, all for the better! We have to hurry, though. I can't _wait _to introduce the new you to Mr. Tall, Dork, and Ugly, but I have to find the right look for you first! Heh!"

Jackie's eyes widened, and she barely tried anymore to keep her voice from shaking. "The…the _new me?"_

"Why of course, silly goose!" He whipped around, his chalk white face practically nose to nose with hers, his eyes and smile so wide they were almost unbearable to look at. "You're about to become my new side kick—my _new accomplice!"_

* * *

"His new accomplice?" Batgirl asked furiously. "_That's_ what you think he wants her for?"

"Makes sense," Nightwing shrugged, after considering Batman's explanation. "Did you really expect him to just wanna give her a big ol' bear hug?"

"And I'm sure it's more than just making her act out a part," Batman stated gravely from where he still stood at the lab, leaning forward on the counter. "He'll want her to be completely on his side…if we don't get to him soon, he might try brainwashing her…using any method he possibly can."

Batgirl and Nightwing shivered simultaneously.

"But…." Batgirl started weakly. "But she _is _his daughter."

Batman turned sharply, his eyes narrowed in determination. "That doesn't matter now. Not to him, anyways." His voice was thick with bitterness. "To him, her being his daughter is just an added element to the joke." He stared them down. "We need to act fast, and now. I want you two on the Batcycles, and you'll take the sewer route. That'll lead you to the building's basement. Tim and I will take the Batmobile down the east side, which will get us there sooner. Unfortunately, with the Joker, we can never plan too much beforehand, because he never sticks to a predictable pattern. Particularly right now." He sighed. "To be honest, I'm not sure just how much John Kerr still exists in him, if any at all. We have no way of knowing how far he'll go with Jackie. We already know he's willing to hurt her. That's enough for me. Any questions?"

While Batman talked, Nightwing suddenly frowned, and took a quick survey of the Batcave. "Uh, just a couple," he said, raising his hand.

"Yes?"

"You say you're going to take Tim in the batmobile, right?"

"Right."

"And Barbara and I are going to take the bikes, right?

"Right.

"Two tiny flaws there, big guy."

"And they are…?"

"Number one, Tim's missing. Number two, one of the bikes is missing."

Bruce's eyes widened beneath his cowl.

* * *

Robin's heart pounded as his Batcycle tore through the east side of town. Jackie. He had to get to Jackie before Joker could hurt her.

Seeing how deeply entrenched the trio had been in discussion, Tim wasn't surprised he had been able to get away with this. He'd had an easy time silently rolling the bike out of the cave's entrance, and sneaking out of the premises with his ride in tow.

While part of him still refused to accept the truth of Jackie's parentage, the other part was devoutly repeating Bruce's words to him: _"Don't think of her any differently. She's still Jackie North, your tutor and your friend."_

Jackie North. Jackie. Besides Alfred, the one person who was stable and sincere in his life, without some hidden agenda, whether it be for good or bad. The girl who laughed at him, teased him, and encouraged him. Jackie, who believed in him without even knowing he was a masked crusader.

Jackie. She was still Jackie.

He didn't have the luxury of waiting, as Batman and the others apparently did.

His bike squealed as he rounded a corner.

* * *

"Y'know, the timing for all this couldn't have worked out better," Joker continued, holding another circus-themed jumpsuit under Jackie's chin, his head tilted as he contemplated the combination. "I was just thinking of trading my dear little Harley Quinn in for a new model. She's been getting it in her head recently some mumbo-jumbo about self-worth and how demeaning abusive relationships are, and all that crap. I blame her relationship with the plant lady. If ya ask me, they're gettin' a li'l too Sapphic lately, if ya get my drift." He elbowed Jackie suggestively, and then patted her head condescendingly. "Which my little genius tutor should." He snickered in the back of his throat.

Jackie giggled nervously, unknowing how to act. "Ha, ha…yeah…. y'know, the term 'lesbian' actually comes from the Greek island of Lesbos where Sappho wrote most of her"-

"Ah-_hah!" _Joker cried triumphantly after a last rummage through another pile. "_This _should be _perfect!" _

"Gah!" Jackie recoiled. The Clown Prince held in his hands a purple trenchcoat like his, along with matching slacks and rainbow suspenders. He shoved them into her hands, along with a clown ruffle for her neck, a water-squirting corsage, and red and black fabric.

"It'll be a fun little art project, honey-cakes!" Joker announced ecstatically. "We'll cut little diamonds out of the fabric, and trim the coat and slacks, making them maybe a bit more sleek and feminine, eh?" He wagged a finger. "But nothin' _too _revealing, mind you! You're still my little girl, after all." His snickers turned sinister again, as he pinched her cheeks a little too roughly. She winced at the pure malice she saw in his red eyes.

He perked up again. "Ooh! While we're at it, baby, we should think of a new name for you, a new persona! Hmmm…." He tapped a faux-thoughtful finger at his chin, elbow in hand. "Let me think… 'Clown Girl' just ain't creative enough…and while 'Wacky Woman' is beautiful in an alliterative sense, it's still pretty lame… 'Harlequin' is too close to 'Harley Quinn' of course…but hey, maybe we could still do some sort of word play with your name! Let's see…Jackie…Jackie North…Jackie…Jackie…." He snapped his fingers, ecstatic again. "I've got it! Replace 'North' with 'Napier,' a former soubriquet of mine. Jackie Napier. Jackie Napes! Like jackanapes! Get it? _Jackie Napes! _HA HAHA HA HA HA HA HAAAAA!"

He turned to gauge his daughter's reaction. She wasn't there anymore, her costume in a heap at his feet.

Jackie leaped over a pile of berets as she ran, searching desperately for an exit. _Thank God I ran track when I was in school! _Her longing for survival and sanity prompted her to forget for the time being that her kidnapper was her father, and that his mad blood might run somewhere in her veins as well. She'd reconcile herself to that possibility later. Meanwhile, she had long ago stopped listening to the Joker's maddened ramblings, and out of sheer panic had done what she knew deep down was a pretty stupid idea: run for it. Still, this place was huge, and her lightning fast gait must have put quite a bit of distance between her and the clown….

Until she almost charged into him, and realized she had run in a circle around the warehouse.

The man she saw before her was not the goofy trickster she had left behind. This one loomed over her, his clownish face twisted in a brutal grimace, eyes glowing demonically. He growled, clenching his fists at his sides.

Primal fear beat in her heart, even as she panted to catch her breath. She tried her hand at an airy laugh. "Ha! Y'know, just cuz I'm a certified genius doesn't mean I have the best sense of direction, am I right?" Her weak smile faded as Joker roared again, and the back of his hand once more came down with a mighty whack against her cheek.

She flew backwards, luckily into a large pile of soft wool, most likely used for sheep costumes at Christmas pageants.

She had little time to recover before Joker grabbed her roughly by her upper arms, jerking her into a halfway sitting position before his hunched form.

His voice hissed through gritted teeth into her ear. "Now, let's get this straight, squirt. No more running out on me. Before we're done here, you're going to see the world the way I see it: as a sick, twisted perversion of a joke. And _I'm _in charge of the punchline. I don't care if I have to beat that into you, you _will _see Gotham and the rest of the world that way." He shook her and squeezed her arms until she yelped, which made him chuckle darkly. "So don't pull a stunt like that again, or I'll personally return to the Wayne household, kidnap your darling adoptive family, and torture them to death in front of you. Maybe then you'll realize that dear ol' Daddy is all you have in this wacky world." He threw her away from him, where she landed hard against her wool padding. Her bedraggled hair hid her tear-stained face as she stared at the ground, silent. "Any questions, young lady?" He turned his back to her, walking back to where her costume lay crumpled on the floor. All he heard from her was heavy breathing as she tried controlling her sobs.

He halted picking up the discarded items when she spoke in a hushed voice. She inquired expressionlessly yet clearly through her tears.

"What was she like?"

* * *

**We're getting pretty close to the end here, folks. Well, don't quote me on that. I really love all the reviews and feedback I've been getting, but you know what I love even more? **_**Even more reviews!**_** Har-dee-har! Anyways, hope you liked. I kinda realize it's preposterous that a sequin could survive intact after being rolled around in a tire, but it's also preposterous to suppose falling into a bunch of chemical acid could turn you into a clown. So there! While I'm usually not a slash fan (I've got nothing against it, of course, just not something I find myself reading very often), I've become increasingly fond of the idea of a Harley/Ivy relationship. It's interesting, you have to admit. So I couldn't resist adding a little hint of that in here, heh. Oh, and I borrowed the idea of Joker's makeshift outfit for Jackie from what Duela Dent, "the Joker's daughter (Harlequin)," sometimes wears in the comics. Ain't I clevuh? **Cue the ominous chirping of crickets...****


	13. Chapter 13

**Warning: child abuse ahead. I hate to do this, but I'm writing the Joker, so I'm committed now. If you think it's too much for my current rating let me know so I can change it accordingly. I'm still new enough to FF that I don't quite know how to play the ratings game yet….**

**

* * *

**

Suppose John Kerr had been asked this same question.

Suppose the daughter he had raised and cherished since her mother's death had asked him this while they sat chatting in the study or at the kitchen table.

How would _he _have answered?

Of course, John Kerr was never totally there to begin with. Jeannie and Irene had held on tight to that tether tying him to the ethical mores of society, but when they died—

All right, so how would the _average _widower have answered?

_She loved to laugh. When you really got her going she'd throw her head back, like you do._

_You also have her heavy-lidded dark blue eyes and sandy blonde hair. That hint of elfin mischief in the glance._

_She would have adored you._

_She was a terrible cook._

_She was my heaven._

Of course none of this occurred to the Joker. Once again, red filled his temples, blotting out all that…that nonsense. Bah! Stupid kid. What an annoying little bint she was turning out to be!

He fumed for a bit, and then let out a sharp cackle. He turned with whimsical nonchalance to where Jackie sat somberly and attentively on her cotton. "Well, snookums, sometimes I remember that time one way, sometimes another! When it comes to my past—oh, never mind, that line's getting kinda old. Anywhoodles, none of that matters now. Never mattered to begin with, really. Nothing does, dearie. Except trying to get a chuckle out of Batboy, and all the other cretins in Gotham. Heh heh! That'll be the day…." He gathered up the rest of her discarded costume and then dumped the mess in front of her. "Suit up, dear heart! Time is ticking away, and I want you all gussied up before the Batrol gets here!"

Jackie ignored the gaudy material, staring with quiet frankness at her father. "I want to know about her."

_You also have that same husky tone to your low voice…._

Joker rolled his eyes, groaning exaggeratedly. "Ohhhh, not this again! Could ya sound more like a broken record, kiddo? You're quite dull. Now be a cute little boopsie and quit this schlock, or Daddy will put your hand in the garbage disposal."

"She was murdered."

He froze.

Quiet. Only their breathing.

They were both frozen.

"…What?"

Jackie shook, but her expression didn't change. "My mother…Jeannie…someone killed her."

Her eyes narrowed, watching him carefully, though still fearful of his reaction. His body swayed slightly, and he shook his head slowly. "No…no…that's…that's…is it? No, that's not how it happened…."

"_Yes," _Jackie insisted softly but with sad intensity. "Yes, Dad, that's how it happened."

His eyes were out of focus and his chuckles came out sort of weak and uneven, like he was tipsy. "It…no…."

"They killed her, and I'm so sorry."

"…Was a baby bottle heater, or something…." He slurred.

Her eyes were so pained. "I'm so sorry. She was…." Her eyes were getting unfocused, too. "They killed her."

"Uh-uh…car…car accident…right?"

"No."

"_Yes. _No! A…a…." His dead eyes darted about, his wide smile empty. "A…heh heh! Animal attack! An animal attack!" The smile remained, but his brow creased in confusion. "An animal…."

Jackie felt hysteria racing around inside her.

"They killed…."

"An animal…." The smile vanished.

Her eyes screamed. "They killed my mommy."

"AN ANIMAL!" Joker's eyes were red and wild. "AN ANIMAL KILLED HER." His cry rang out in the empty factory, and his face was murder. His breathing ragged and heavy, he stared with sizzling loathing at the girl on the floor. He didn't know who she was, but he hated her. He couldn't see her clearly, but he hated her. There was a sandy haze about her and he had to end it. She reached out to him, trying to stand up.

He shoved her back. He snickered as she cried out.

He couldn't see her clearly but he hated her.

He pulled out his gun, his drunken chortling growing darker and darker and filling up the world.

Jackie's eyes widened as his shaking, swaying hand raised the gun upward….

"Oh, God," she whispered.

An enraged, childish, "NO!" interrupted the madness.

"GAH!" Joker cried out testily as Robin landed on top of him, flying down from the rafters. He punched the clown in the face as they both landed hard on the cold ground, causing the stunned clown to momentarily lose his bearings. It was long enough for Robin to grab the gun away from him and run to the dazed Jackie.

"Jack…Jackie! Are you okay?" He asked in a clipped tone, trying to hide his frantic worry. She looked like a broken doll.

She blinked up at him. "I'm not too sure, kid. I'm not too sure," she answered dully.

He threw a long cloak around her shoulders from one of the piles behind them, instinctively trying to shield her in any way he could think of. "Stay here! I'll take care of him!" He placed the gun in his utility belt, where it stuck out awkwardly at his hip.

He turned to confront the mad clown.

The mad clown was nowhere to be seen.

What Robin did see was the cement floor hurtling toward him, after the crowbar hit him in the temple, and the high-pitched laughter filled his ears.

Jackie screamed as she saw her father leap with jackal-like glee up and down, viciously bringing the crowbar down twice more on the limp boy's form.

She rushed to his side, pulling frantically on his arm. "Stop! He's a boy! A _boy!" _

"A _boy!" _Joker cried out in sudden ecstasy. He yanked his arm out of Jackie's grasp, and brought the crowbar down for another loud whack on the boy's back. "A boy and…and we're going to do _everything _together!" He stamped on Jackie's foot for interfering again, and whacked the boy once more. "Baseball!" Whack. Pushed the crying girl again. "School diorama!" Whack. Yank her away by her hair. My, she keeps coming back, doesn't she? "That special talk!" Whack. The boy coughed weakly. Elbowed the rushing girl in the abdomen. "And best of all: teach him some home-spun, hard-knock lessons TO DIE FOR!" He raised the crowbar high to deal the finishing blow, while the girl was still hunched over, trying to catch her breath.

"No!" She cried.

But the crowbar was coming down.

Until Batman flew into Joker's midsection, knocking him over.

Joker growled in frustration as his head banged against concrete again, bested for the third time this night by one of the Bat saps. At least this was the big guy.

His smiled stretched as he regarded the glowering Batman. "Batsy! Where've you been, man? I expected you hours ago—ACK!" He muttered as Batman fiercely hoisted him up off the floor.

Batman stared at his adversary with ill-concealed murderous rage through the glowing slits in his cowl. "You sick son-of-a-bitch," he hissed through gritted teeth. "Brutally attacking a boy…and your own daughter…." He shook the Joker as the clown giggled. "What are you thinking, huh? This is funny to you, is it? Here you have a chance of redemption, of starting over. And what do you do? You _terrorize her. _Don't you realize she's all you have left? I guess even I expected better from you. My mistake."

"Yawn!" The Joker replied. "Booooring! Is class time over, teach? This whole scenario's turning into the biggest bummer. I thought it would be loads of laughs! Can't remember why, now. Huh. Anyways, nothin'! No fun! No kicks! Just crying girls and bleeding kids. Oh, wait, that is pretty fun. Hee hee."

Roaring, Batman threw Joker against the factory wall.

_Bad move, _Joker thought as he slipped his hand into his jacket. Batman loomed closer; the part of his face Joker could see more irate than the clown could ever remember it being.

"You're pathetic," Batman spat out.

"And you're…." Joker pulled out the small packet. "Hot air! _HA!" _The mini smoke bomb exploded in Batman's face, causing the dark knight to gasp for air, coughing as the hot fumes seeped into his lungs. Damn. This would take awhile to recover from. Despite his determination to stand, his knees buckled and he collapsed to the ground. He forced himself to focus on his breathing.

Jackie, meanwhile, was unaware of what was going on just a few feet away from her. During the scuffle, she immersed herself in hurriedly inspecting Robin's wounds, ripping up bits of fabric around her to use as makeshift bandages.

"Jackie…is that you…?" Robin asked weakly, half-conscious. He peered out of a swollen eye.

"Yup. But shh, you shouldn't be talking, kid." She wrapped a scarf tightly around a gaping wound on his arm. "You're a brave guy. But you need to lie still, now. Can you do that for me?"

He nodded, and then winced, any movement torture at this point. Then he bit his lip, determined at appearing fearless.

Jackie couldn't help the small, sad smile that lifted one corner of her mouth. "Hm. _Stubbornly _brave. Kind of reminds me of a fan of yours I know." She reached out to smooth his hair.

But another hand grabbed her wrist, and flung her away from the boy.

Through her mane of disheveled hair, Jackie saw her father's red grin.

"Sorry to interrupt, Miss Nightingale. But see, I've decided enough is enough. You're too… too _nice _for me. At least Harley has her vicious side." He casually pulled his gun out of the unaware Robin's holster. He'd never been so satisfied. Batman was hacking up a lung, Robin was bleeding and close to death, he had a gun in his hand, and a helpless girl lay terrified at his feet.

Life was beautiful.

Now, if only he could remember whom this pretty girl at his feet _was_. Somebody he wanted in his gang, or…something. Eh. Time to go bye-bye.

Seeing the gun in his hand once more, Jackie sat up, pulling her knees against her chest in what struck Joker as a humorous attempt to shield herself from his malice. In a rather steady voice—surprising, given her almost berserk expression and wild hair—she said, "Dad…are you really going to do this?"

Dad?  
Dad.

Oh, yeah! His face brightened. His daughter. His nicey-nice daughter. The family disappointment.

He pointed the gun right at her face. "Yup. I'ma really gonna do this, sunshine." He cocked the pistol, his finger wrapping around the trigger. "See ya. Really wouldn't wanna be ya!"

Jackie stared into the barrel of the gun, knowing it was the last thing she would ever see. And at the hands of her long-lost father, too.

She let this sink in.

Then she couldn't help it.

She laughed. Once.

Then she covered her mouth.

But it still bubbled in her chest, and she shook her head, resigned. She indulged herself in a few more hearty giggles. Because why not?

She looked up with dark blue, shining eyes at her father. He'd never seen anyone look at him like that before.

Except he had.  
The eyes.

"You know what the funny thing is?" She asked with inexpressible tenderness, mixed with pert frankness. "I'm not even mad at you. In spite of it all…." She shrugged, smirking. "I still love you, y'know."

Y'know y'know I still I still love

_I still love you, y'know_

_Jack._

The face was hers.

The gun seemed to slip of its own will out of Joker's still hand.


	14. Chapter 14

Bruce found Jackie in the west wing, standing in front of the portrait of his parents. Her arms were crossed, head tilted as she regarded their likeness. He couldn't read the expression in her eyes.

He stood behind her for a moment, his eyes likewise drawn to Thomas and Martha Wayne. Their exact faces were slightly blurred now in his memory. Even in the portrait they seemed somewhat far off, unlike the immediate warmth the mere thought of them brought to that carefully guarded place beneath Batman's resolve.

Jackie's breathless "hi" returned him from his reverie. She stared a few moments more at the happy couple, and then turned around to her benefactor. She looked better then she had in the first few weeks following her rescue, having spent most of her time sleepless at Tim's bedside at the hospital. He had just today been released to Wayne Manor for bed rest. Bruce released a statement to the press detailing how the overzealous young Tim Drake had fallen down the Wayne staircase while skateboarding indoors.

Jackie stayed with Tim the entire time. So now she knew about him...about them.

The knowledge only increased the sudden dark circles around her eyes, which first stemmed from emotional shock, then her sleepless vigils by Tim's hospital bed.

Luckily, they had by now mostly disappeared, the honey hue returned to her complexion. The eyes less glassy.

While Bruce wasn't thrilled she knew the truth, it did lessen some of his own reserve. "Hi," he replied.

Now both their expressions were unreadable.

He cleared his throat. "Just left Tim. He's sleeping. The doctor says he'll"—

"—Be out and about in a few weeks time, with an arm sling, of course. I know." She shook her head, squinting. "Are you really going to let him keep on doing this? He's"—

"—Just a kid?" Bruce glanced stonily at the portrait. "So was I."

A dense silence passed as Jackie stared at her shoes. Without looking up, she asked, "So, what's next?"

"For you?" He shrugged. "What do you want for yourself, Jackie?"

Something about the question seemed to jar her a tad, her blue eyes snapping to his questioningly. "I…huh. Good one." The small breath she exhaled sounded to Bruce like something close to a laugh. "I really, really don't know." She shook her head. "I'm not like you. Not like…you, Dick, Barbara…Tim. My father. I…I can't don a suit and fight or commit crime, and through that somehow come to terms with who I am. I don't have that kind of strength," she finished morosely. She looked back at the portrait. "I don't have good memories associated with a parental figure, like you do." She frowned. "Phooey."

Bruce smiled. "You're right. You have a different kind of strength entirely." He placed a hand on her shoulder. "Jackie, no matter what you decide to do…stay on here, or take up my offer to study someplace else…I want you to know you do have a power, something no one else I know has."

Jackie raised her eyebrows. "This build-up better be worth it."

Bruce closed his eyes and sighed, thinking. Finally he spoke. "Someone wise I once knew told me that everyone, no matter how corrupt and evil, has one small but persistent spark of decency in their soul. Something that makes them crave love and redemption, at the very core of their darkness. Even the Joker. Jackie," His gaze deepened, and he tilted her face upward, hand under her chin. "You're his spark."

* * *

A few weeks later, Joker reclined on his cot in Arkham, practicing his Curly laugh aloud to no one in particular. It was just past dinnertime, and some of the more sedate inmates were winding down for the evening, only a few random yelps and impassioned oaths resounding in the cell block.

Joker was experiencing one of those pleasant lulls between acts, when he hadn't yet formed any immediate plan for escape. As such, his brilliantly bad brain hummed along relatively quietly. True, all the images that did pass through his mind—the Stooges, ham sandwiches, the Keystone Cops—were all tinted in blood. Joker likened the sensation to stabbing the man working the projector at a movie house, and watching his blood seep onto the film prints. Oh, and there were also the intermittent fantasies of Batman getting mauled by a Bengali tiger tripping on Smilex.

Hee!

Ah, but these _were _pleasant times here in homey ol' Arkham. He never understood why so many criminals groused about staying here. True, the place didn't beat showtime; after all, performers were only ever truly happy when they were on the go in front of a live—_or not_—audience. But still, for downtime, nothing beat a sterile, humorless environment for gathering one's thoughts. Often all it took was absolute dreary and enforced silence for madness to really churn and grow.

The only down point right now was the TV blaring down the hall. Summer Gleason's voice infringed on the clown's Bugs Bunny-inspired fantasy of slaughtering Bats at a barbershop while singing "Figaro."

"…The mischievous youngster expected to recuperate in the next few weeks. Meanwhile, the boy's tutor Jackie North, the mysterious girl infamously kidnapped by the Joker for unknown reasons, took a plane out of Gotham this morning to start work volunteering in different developing countries across the Eastern hemisphere. The teenager says she plans not only to teach children basic curriculum, but also start comedy troupes for the children to take part in. Backed by the Wayne foundation, Miss North plans to dedicate her activism to the memory of her parents, Jack and Jeannie Kerr. Many wonder at the girl's eagerness to take part in comedy after her recent entanglement with the Clown Prince of Crime, but her benefactor Bruce Wayne assures the press, 'She's made the right choice.' In other news, Secretary of Commerce Martin Green denies allegations he was involved in the seedy investigations of"—

Bored, the guards changed the channel to the recent game, their excited cheers and groans annoying Joker even more. He turned to his side, harrumphing exaggeratedly.

What right had the aggravating little chit to take comedy—beautiful, glorious, inspiring, life-restoring comedy—and use it for _good? _Blech! Joker clenched his fists at the thought of his daughter—_his_ daughter, _his!_ —stealing her father's act to better the lives of underprivileged brats. Sappy! Grotesque!

He'd hunt her down and shoot her if the thought didn't…didn't…make him feel kinda numb like it wasn't that funny. Why…why wasn't the idea of killing her funny? It only gave him this irritating…_blank _feeling. The lack of violence he wanted to bestow on her really made him hate 'er.

Because of her damn eyes. And that hair. Those blue eyes and that hair a laughing girl not scared your hands are just as dirty dirtier it'll be okay _I still_

STOP.

Joker shook his head as if trying to brush off a pesky mosquito. Then he giggled self-deprecatingly. What was he thinking about again? My oh my, he certainly was getting less and less lucid than normal lately…for example, take his recent arrest, which he could barely remember. Bits and pieces remained, such as muttering to himself drunkenly as Batman pushed him into the Batmobile, ambulances arriving at…at…wherever the hell his last heist had been. Then he remembered stumbling into his usual cell here at Arkham, laughing as he collapsed onto his cot, then his vision bleary from the tears—

Tears?

Bah! He must be making that part up. Or…just imagined it. He couldn't tell sometimes.

These gaps in his recent memory were becoming quite the disturbing trend.

He was interrupted from his reflections by a bat-shaped shadow looming over him.

Joker turned smiling toward his adversary, the Bat Sap standing behind the screen blocking Joker's cell.

"Hellloooooo, Dork Knight!" Joker merrily rang out. "Missed me, eh? It must be so boring for you when I'm not around to bring a little cheer to your humdrum crusading existence. How's the bird brat? Crippled for life? Oh, do say crippled for life! I could use some good news…."

"I have something for you from your daughter."

Daughter. Sandy hair.

Blink away.

Joker sniffed, haughtily sticking his nose up in the air. "Not interested unless it's a file hidden away in a banana cream pie. Wouldn't do much good here because of the lack of bars, but at least there'd be some hope for her then. After all, it is the thought that counts."

Batman held out a catcher's mitt.

An involuntary shiver seized Joker's shoulders. He desperately held onto his aching smile.

Batman keyed in a code by the screen. The doors slid open quickly, and before Joker had time to move, Batman gently tossed the gift into the air, which landed with a "plop" near Joker's pillow. The screen closed just as quickly.

Batman saw Joker's body tense, as if he wanted to recoil from the old glove. The Dark Knight said quietly, "She does still love you. Don't ask me why, but she does. You don't deserve it. But who knows: maybe Jack Kerr does."

Joker's head snapped up, eyes blazing, his ghastly red grin opening for a retort—

But Batman was already gone.

Tentatively, as if afraid the relic might spring to life, Joker turned over the catcher's mitt, inspecting it in a detached haze. _Ha ha ha… 'Take me out to the ball game, take me out to the'—say! Maybe my next caper could be baseball themed! Why not? Lotsa excuses to do some damage with a bat…Heh, BAT! Heh…._

His vision blurred again.

But no blood tint this time.

Because a warm voice—unspeakably warm—said, "See? I told you it was too soon to get a baseball glove. I knew it would be a girl."

Joker turned his head slowly to the woman sitting before him on the cot.

She was dressed in a light cotton gown. Her shoulder-length sandy hair hanged down, shining in a glow softer than the cell's dim lighting usually allowed. Her smile was wide and so very, very inviting.

Jackie?

No, not Jackie.

Who…

Her hand soft on his cold wrist.

The dark blue eyes squinting in mischievous camaraderie as she leaned in and practically whispered through her smiling lips, "But it's okay. You know how to make me laugh."

On impulse, Joker reached out for her. But then he blinked.

In his arms was only an old catcher's mitt.

Batman heard from halfway down the corridor a defeated, sobbing cry an instant before it was smothered in hysterical laughter.

END

* * *

**…That be all, folks. Ya like? The man Batman is talking about, who said all people have one redeeming spark, is J'onn J'onzz, the Martian Manhunter. This took place in the JLA comic book, "Hal Jordan: Spectre of Vengeance, Day of Judgement"…or something like that. Can't find the issue now, of course.**

**Anyways, I know I took a risk exploring Joker's origin and bringing in an original character like Jackie, but I hope I stayed in character enough for everyone's liking. I look forward to feedback! Thanks so much for all the support, faithful readers and reviewers! You people encourage my merry madness, so it's all your fault. Hee!**


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